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In two laps, the track marshals have removed the battered yellow car, and our engineers tell the boys the track is clear.
Dante again passes the pit lane entry and continues defying his engineers. I wonder if all the drivers have this much ego. Cole certainly did even when he was just eighteen.
All the computer data on Dante’s car looks good. It’s just tire life that’s the problem. I wonder if the engineers in the other team are thinking the same thing as their dead car gets wheeled back to their garage. I’m wondering what settings we can tinker with on our end that may help.
I’m chewing my cuticle when the data on my screen blows up, bright red lights and error messages flashing.
I see it on my computer before I look up and confirm it on the television monitor. Dante’s car goes off at a corner. He sails into a gravel trap as his rear left tire comes apart in strands and flings huge pieces of rubber everywhere. The car kicks up a plume of dust, and the gravel thankfully does its job. It slows Dante down significantly before the car knocks sideways into a barrier wall and rocks to a halt.
“Cagata pneumatici! Vaffanculo a chi t'è morto,” a very long string of what I’m assuming are Italian profanities come through my headset as Dante’s car comes to a stop.
I need to learn more languages.
“What is he saying?” I ask the engineer sitting next to me.
He lifts one of his earphones off his head and says, “Umm, more or less, these bullshit tires can go fuck corpses. More or less,” he shrugs.
“Are you all right, Dante?” Edmund asks him.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. These piece of shit tires should not come apart like this,” he yells back.
Edmund tries to calm him down over the radio, but Dante is right. All tires, especially high-performance tires like these, are designed to fail in safe ways. They should not implode like this. Is this what’s been happening all season?
Typically when I watch races at home, I’m only paying attention to Cole. And I’m also usually hiding in my bedroom, so the rest of the world doesn’t know exactly how not over Cole I am.
I want to see that damaged tire.
I check the monitor and see Cole’s doing fine out there, his data looks good. I watch as the marshals work on getting Dante’s car onto a wrecker and wait with my hands on my hips as the tow truck starts it’s slow progression back to the garage area.
Dante makes it back before the tow truck and storms through the garage, hurling more Italian inside his helmet. He shoves a door open so hard it bounces off the wall behind, then escapes through the rear of the garage. I need to talk to him about what happened, but not now. Angry Dante looks a little scary.
Eventually, the car makes it back on the wrecker, and I’m clamoring to get near it as it gets lowered to the ground from the truck. A crew of our mechanics is waiting to assist, and once the car is on the ground, I start inspecting the tires.
They’re beat to shit, they’re hot, but I need to really look at them.
Our crew gets the car on a dolly, and mechanics get to work on removing the tires and cooling the brakes, so they don’t catch on fire. As I’m waiting for a tire to be removed, a team of Concordia reps in white shirts appear with a rolling metal rack.
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” I tell the mechanic removing the damaged tire. “I want that tire.” I point to the shredded tire that blew apart on Dante.
“I’m Mark, but what do you mean you want this tire?” The mechanic asks.
“I mean, I want it. Give it to me, please,” I make a motion with my hand to give it the hell over.
Mark looks at me like I’m nuts.
I find myself pissed off. Dante could have been hurt.
I don’t know if it’s the tire’s fault or what happened, but I intend to find out. I do know that I should not be looking at a tire that looks like shredded chicken, for god’s sake.
“Uhh, I can’t give you the tire,” Mark argues.
“What? Why not?”
One of the Concordia reps wheels the rolling rack and takes the tire from Mark. The other reps start taking tires from the other mechanics as they are removed from the car.
“All used tires return to Concordia immediately for inspection,” some little nitwit Concordia chick who’s crept up next to me says.
“Inspection? Well, I want to inspect them first,” I snap back.
