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“Didn’t know you had clearance for racing again, Stacey,” Phil grunted. “Good on ya.”
I paused, unable to respond. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on my forehead despite how cold it was. A thump on the back of the van startled me into action.
“You ready Phil?” Uncle Bruce yelled.
Phil groaned again and I nudged him with my boot to get moving with my jeans.
“Ah, yep, give us a sec,” I answered back, deepening my voice. I ran my shaking fingers over the wristband and took a deep breath. Ten years was a long time between races. This race was a far cry from mucking around doing sprint starts in the farm ute in the paddock.
Sam looked over her shoulder. “Got three cars in front of me, Stace. Last chance to not do this very stupid thing.”
I grabbed Phil’s helmet. “I’m doing this.”
“You’re an idiot. But you’re my favourite idiot.” Sam said. “Go and own that track, babe.”
I grinned and pushed the helmet on. “You bet I will.”
Uncle Bruce thumped again on the back door.
I grabbed my forgotten beanie and threw it again at Phil, who’d finally pulled on my jeans and tee. “Wear this and don’t be sick on my jeans, okay?”
Phil curled up on the floor of the van and made a sound that I took for a yes. Sam threw him a look of disgust. “Don’t you dare spew in the car!”
I slammed the visor down on the helmet and opened the back door.
Uncle Bruce stepped back, looking me up and down. He stopped at my chest.
Ah, boobs. Hadn’t thought of that.
I crossed my arms and shrugged.
Uncle Bruce stroked his moustache, then shook his head. “I don’t want to know.” He opened the Camaro’s driver’s door for me. “Come on,Phil,” he said too loudly.
I strode to the car, slipped into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel. My heart hammered against my ribs. I closed my eyes and focussed on my breathing.One, two …I’d practised breathing techniques with each hospital visit to prevent terror from overtaking me.One, two, and three.
My heart rate slowed and my body zinged. Racing made me feel alive.How had I left this for so long?The roar of the crowd flowed over the car like a wave. The commentators discussed the drivers’ stats for the race before me. I stared out the windscreen towards the start line. I wanted to go fast. I wanted to win.
“You’re up next,” Uncle Bruce said, propping an arm on the open driver’s window. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I slid up the helmet’s visor. “I’ve got this.”
I swallowed hard. This wasn’t speeding along a dirt track between sheep paddocks.
Too late to pull out now.
Uncle Bruce nodded and I slid down the visor, about to wind the window up when he spoke again.
“You were the best driver I’ve had, Stace.”
He gave my helmet a pat and a thumbs up, then disappeared to the back of the car.
I wound up the window as Sam towed the car to the start grid. Uncle Bruce then unhooked and pushed the Camaro alone to the start line. The official gave me a thumbs up as my tyres nudged the line. Another with a clipboard eyeballed my wristband and gave me another thumbs up.
Holy fuck, I was doing this!
I eyed off the lights for the start of the race—nicknamed the Christmas tree—red at the top, amber in the middle and green below.
“Green means go,” I murmured.
