Chapter 8

“Care if I ride along?”

“I suppose.” I think my life is changing again.

He went to the office door, stuck his head out, and said, “Carol, I’ll be out for a couple of hours. Take a long lunch. Ha! I knew that would make you smile.”

Carol turned off the lights and followed us out the door, locking it behind her. At the street, she went right and we went straight to the Mustang. He was impressed.

“I’ve always wanted to ride in one of these, Shelby?”

“Yup ... performance package... 5 point oh ... supercharger, chip, six speed, locking diff, dual four puck calipers, 51cm wheels. Safety package ... here. Let me show you the belts ... got it? Good. Slap and turn the button to get out of ‘em. Grab bars here, here and here. Don’t worry, you can’t break ‘em. The seats are welded to the cage, if the whole body comes off, you’ll still be in the seat. You might be hurt but you’ll be alive. She’ll do 328 kilometers an hour and stop in 28 meters from 168kph.”

Gulp.

“I won’t be going anywhere near that fast today. I didn’t check the list before I brought the ladies out.”

“The list?”

“Ever watch the pilot of a private plane... ?”

“I fly,” he said, “Check list ... I got it.”

“I have a list of things that Shelby has reported as breaking or suffers from abnormal wear, I have had most everything Shelby reports replaced at the factory ... there are some that have a very low incidence of breakage.”

“Too bad that’s not a law ... there’d be fewer accidents.”

“Yup ... some people don’t want their lives interfered with.”

“You know you’re going to cause a shitstorm is Abby tests as high as I think.”

“How high?”

“Right out of high school.”

“Her mom was really smart.”

“You’re not too shabby yourself,” he said. “How many inventions is it now?”

“I can’t say.”

There were a multitude of fancy car haulers in line ... most of them were festooned with sponsorship decals. We had to wait.

We pulled up to the gate ... Alan again.

“Dave,” he said, “Track’s closed.”

“I want in Abby’s garage.”

“Let me check,” Alan got on his phone, spoke to it and disconnected.

“Have at it.”

The Pits and garage area was a storm of noise ... engines altitude tuning and hammers and cursing ... thuds, metal screeches, groans and such. I was amazed that anyone could communicate.

Number Thirteen. I took out a ring of keys ... found the right one and unlocked the padlock. Then the passthrough door and reached for the light switches I knew were on the left wall. Lo and behold ... the lights worked. Dim though ... about one in three was burnt out ... old age I suppose.

“Three cars: full on restored rally 1973 Ford Escort ... with four wheel drive added. Dirt track Holden super mod, Formula Ford circuit car,” I said to myself, more than anyone else. I was looking at a million dollars.

I threw up the rollup door ... the sunlight shone on three canvas lumps.

The tarp on the MYgale 1.8l Formula Ford was mice chewed on the lower edge

This particular Formula Ford was a hybrid ... a nodular iron Kent block with a DOHC Mazda hand hammered forged aluminum head ... direct port injection and crank timed. Enormous horsepower with an 11,500rpm redline. Her almost win car. There were 4 replacement engines on crates and racks of replacement parts still in wrappings. The overhead was full of tires, wheels and spoilers.

The Holden crate super mod was a little dinged up ... what dirt oval car isn’t? Six complete tested and broken in engines in crates ready for the next disaster. Parts and sheet metal and tools and, and, and.

The ‘73 rally Ford shone like a jewel ... bought, built, prepped and never raced. A two hundred and fifty thousand dollar brand new used car.

I had not noticed that the noise level slowly faded away as I uncovered the first two cars. But I definitely noticed the sharply indrawn breaths and whistling sighs as I stripped off the cover of Her pride and joy. Not that I cared ... I was too busy crying.

I felt like an ogre. Abby’s heritage and I refused it to her. Well ... She’s too young to drive. And that cheered me up.

I dried my eyes on my sleeve and turned to look. It seemed that every mechanic, pit crewman, owner, driver and their wives and girlfriends were standing in the 24 foot garage doorway watching. It was like the presentation of a never before seen, newly authenticated Van Gogh portrait was unveiled at an auction at Sotheby’s or Christie’s and the opening bid was two hundred million dollars.

“What?” I said.