(Last time..) Jack Martin glanced down at his speedometer, the rough roads had broken something and the needle was flicking back and forth between 0 MPH and 130 MPH, he assumed the latter as the cars braked for Palace. To his surprise, the Ace suddenly dove for the inside of the corner. Martin gave him space but the Ace still ran up and over the curb. Amazingly, he managed to take the lead. The flag man held up his hand as they passed signaling 5 laps to go. (Continuing from Part 1)

Attrition was starting to take its toll on the rest of the competitors too. On the front straightaway, yellows were waving into Airport. A car was stopped on the left side of the road and the driver was out of the car. Lewis couldn’t believe his eyes as he passed. Standing beside his car, looking more like an annoyed father than a person in danger of being run over by passing race cars, the driver was fueling up his car with a gas can, he had apparently yoinked from the airport. He stood there, unwavering as the Ace, Porsche and Triumph sped by. A lap later, he was gone, apparently having rejoined the race. Charles Schmidt had also rejoined the race after checking out his car in the pits, He was limping around in 6th. Jackie Shepherd meanwhile was busy changing a blown tire in the pit lane. He intended to run the last 2 laps to try for a lap record, since he knew his brakes would last for that long at least. Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, he watched as William Herbert came into the pits. His car had overheated, he was done for the day.

At the front of the field with 3 laps to go, it was Ace, Porsche, Triumph, and MG. The Ace and Porsche ran nose to tail, slowly pulling away from Lewis and Edsel who were battling for the final podium spot, and $500 of prize money. Edsel managed to overhaul Lewis into Airport by sending his car through the ditch on the inside of the corner. Lewis, again, was lost for words as he watched the MG fly through the air as it rejoined the track. He gestured wildly to a nearby flagman, who did, and importantly, could do nothing about it.

Ahead, Martin was sweating up a storm in his Porsche. Since the Ace took the lead, the pace had been fierce, and he was working hard behind the wheel trying to keep up. However as they started lap 10, he got a stroke of luck. Following through with his plan, Jackie Shepherd accelerated onto the track ahead of the leaders. The silver damaged Porsche quickly got up to speed on the asphalt, but as soon as he entered the macadam the car again started to bounce and lose traction. The Ace was seemingly caught off guard by this, and Martin had his opportunity. Coming down the main straight he slingshot past the red sport’s car and started to pass Shepherd. However the silver coupe cut across his nose entering the turn, and he had to back off. Now on the straightaway, the Ace attempted to pass Shepherd, but he again swerved to block. The cars came through Cemetery with Shepherd still at the lead. Martin at this point was pissed, he flailed rude gestures at Shepherd the whole way down the back straight away until he finally managed to pass coming into the Palace corner. The Ace remained trapped behind Shepherd, before it finally squeezed passed on the start/finish straight. The flagman waved the white flag, one more lap…

Martin hit the pavement hard while he had it, his foot nearly pushing through the floorboards as he accelerated away. It was a small lead, but crucially it was a lead on the last lap of the race, but there was an issue. The road was narrowing as the crowds inched closer, cheering on the drivers in the final lap. It was nerve racking as markers used to brake were gone, hidden behind a mass of bodies. Some brave souls stupidly attempted to snap pictures of the cars as they approached, standing in the middle of the road only jumping out of the way moments before Martin would have committed to swerving. Somewhere behind him the Ace was still following, he didn’t dare look but he could hear the soothing domesticated snarl of it’s engine close by. Approaching Airport, braking, third, second, looking to the apex, too many people… he modified his line to avoid the spectators, some coming close enough to smack his mirror off if they wanted too. Smoothly back on the power, up to third and immediately back down to second. The hillside was now covered with bodies, and as the cars headed back for town there was only about a mile to go. The road seemed clear, people staying close to the buildings on the sidewalks that paralleled the back straight. Martin finally looked in the mirror, the Red Sports car was gone. Accelerating he listened, trying to see with sound over the air cooled throb of his own engine. Somewhere there was a car, he knew it, he could hear it!

Looking to his left, suddenly he realized the Ace had pulled alongside him! They were both accelerating at the kink at full blast, both walkways now filled with spectators trapped between them and the buildings. Lewis grabbed the wheel as tightly as he could with one hand as he shifted to high gear with the other. The speedo flickered past 130 MPH at one point, neither car giving an inch, wheel to wheel, door to door.

Suddenly Martin had a thought. Just 7 days before, in France, Pierre Levegh crashed his Mercedes Benz into the crowd on the front straight of the 24 hours of LeMans. He was dodging a car coming to the pit lane, and ended up in a 150 MPH fireball killing 84, including himself. It was a horrific crash at the biggest race in the world and there was talk of banning motor racing outright in Europe because of it. Looking ahead, here on a small island in the middle of the Great Lakes, at an amateur racing event, hundreds of souls now hung in the balance. Their trust in his driving skills, led them to a false sense of security, leading them into what could quickly become an alleyway of inescapable death and destruction should he and the Ace crash. In that moment, he decided sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, he lifted off the throttle and allowed the Ace to take the lead. Together, with the crowd descending on them, they piloted their cars through the sea of bodies to the finishing line. Checkered flag.

Behind them Bob Lewis had repassed Edsel coming down the back straightaway, but his Triumph was dumping steam from the radiator. He had spun Shepherd to get him out of the way a few corners before. Still, they would come home in third and forth respectfully. Many Laps down, Jackie Shepherd came across the line next, his car now wearing a few new battle scars and with smoke pouring from his ears. Charles Schmidt limped his MG home to 5th position just behind. As the drivers navigated back to the pitlane at a cruising speed, they were met by a brass band playing “Garry Owen”, and as Confetti popped the cars came to a stop in the pit lane. Spectators, crew members, and the press descended on the winning Ace. The driver shrugged off their seat belts and stood arms up, Triumphantly as the crowd cheered. Jack Martin watched while still sitting in his car and shook his head.

“Next time.” He vowed. Looking in his mirror, he noticed Lewis and Shepherd had come to blows behind him. Members of their pit crews desperately tried to separate the drivers as their passions boiled over, along with Bob’s Triumph. The thing was, Bob Lewis was a 6’6” professional boxer. Ballsy as Shepherd was punching him in the nose, Lewis could break the kid in half if he wanted to, he was definitely holding back. Behind them, Charles Schmidt, always the showman, allowed children to climb into the driver seat for pictures as his team examined the damage. He had bent a tie rod, leading to his left side front wheel pointing left. It was fixable, but it had cost him the race, and $1000 of prize money. The Ace and its unknown pilot took that prize, with Martin earning a check for $750, and Lewis, along with a broken nose, $500 to repair his machine.

Curiosity was starting to spread like a fever amongst the crowd now, almost everyone that wasn’t in a fist fight turned to watch as the Ace’s mysterious Pilot removed their helmet, mask, and goggles. There were gasps of disbelief in the crowd, the band suddenly stopped playing, even the radio announcers stuttered into their microphones as they came face to face with the petite beauty that was Stephanie McClaire. She pulled her raven colored hair out from her driving suit and threw it behind her as the crowd seemed to melt around her. The driver turned out to be as sexy and as exotic as the car she drove, and apparently more talented than all the rest. Suddenly the cheering and chanting went ballistic, their voices drowning out the sound of the still pumping engines in the background. She looked over the crowd from her car and smiled and waved, and even Martin stood up in his seat applauding. McClaire, standing balanced on her door, bowed for the crowd and hopped down from her car to collect her victor’s reef and check. She continued waving to the crowd as Martin jumped out of his Porsche. Walking up to the race official, he briefly congratulated McClaire, and took his check. There was no Podium at Put-in-Bay unlike some of the bigger races. Radio and word of mouth spread the message around the little island faster than any photograph or newspaper could, so official pictures would be taken at the awards banquet for tomorrow's papers. Still, the local press scrambled to take a picture of the two young lions posed beside the hot red, race winning, roadster. Bob Lewis would eventually claim his check, but only after throwing “Hotshot” Shepherd through a nearby shop window.

A few hours later, the crowds had dissipated, most were on the boat ride home back to mainland Ohio. All that was left hanging around the garages where the race teams themselves, and Jr. Members of the press, jotting down interviews and notes that would probably make the lesser known papers in a few days. Some of the teams that had run in the other classes earlier in the day had already packed up and left, but most of the 2000cc class remained behind, expecting to spend the night in The Palace. Jack Martin sat alone in his garage, in the driver seat of his Porsche. He had no team, and thus no reason to stay the night in Put-in-Bay, but he couldn’t leave just yet. There was little point in driving to the Ferry dock and waiting there, exposed to the elements, for traffic to drip through the faucet. Instead he sat in silence, thinking about the day’s events, and how to divvy up his prize money. He knew he would need at least $400 to make it to the next event on his calendar, The Bremerton Cup. Held July 31st, It was a 100 mile amateur endurance race, held in the middle of the night, on an airfield near Seattle. A 2,300 mile drive across America awaited him, along with any competitor here at Put-in-Bay that wanted to contest for the $5000 prize, but the race also counted for extra Championship points in the American Sports Car Championship standings, so there was plenty of incentive. But the rest of the Winnings would go to his Grandmother and her caretaker. She had fallen and broken a leg a few weeks before and was temporarily bedridden. Jack was racing to pay for her care, just as she had paid for his upbringing. $350 would pay for another 3 months of nursing and bed calls, Hopefully long enough for her leg to heal.

Suddenly, the Garage door started rattling up and open, Martin snapped up straight. He was expecting someone from the press box, almost always one managed to find him post race. However, as his eyes adjusted to the sudden intrusion of light he saw Miss McClaire, now dolled up, wearing a black top tucked into a red swing skirt that came up to her waist.

“Jack Martin?” She asked.

“Is breaking into garages a habit of yours Miss McClaire?” he replied. Laughing, she lowered the door about halfway so the light could illuminate where she was walking. She stepped around the two wheel trailer Martin towed to the races full of his spare tires and tools.

“I understand you’re heading to Seafair next month for the The Bremerton Cup?”

“Who told you that?” Martin said surprised, without a team to blabber away his secrets, his plans normally stayed in his head.

“Charles Schmidt, told me you were a regular attendee, at least as a relay. I was wondering if you wanted to team up?” Miss McClaire asked, as she arrived at the door of his car. Her voice was surprisingly serious, sounding more like a lawyer than a teenaged girl. Martin looked at her, curious. She had some real driving skill, that was for sure, but why was she suddenly interested in becoming a relay in a race that didn’t necessarily require one?

“You know Seafair doesn’t require a co-driver?” Martin asked.

“Yes, but two skilled pilots working together could win the race a lot easier than two finishing in a dead heat.” McClaire replied, clearly it was a case of cooperate or compete.

“Who would be the relay?” Martin asked, it was customary for them to get paid less, normally 35%, as they didn’t put up the cost of preparing the car.

“I suppose you, Mr. Martin. I did win today’s race after all?” The snarky remark, though correct, left a sour taste in Martin’s mouth. Had he not lifted off, he would have had the inside for the final corner, and very well could have won. “Could have” being the key word. Still, $1,750 was nothing to sneeze at, it was just under the prize for 2nd of $2000. It was definitely worth considering.

“I’ll…” he hesitated. “I’ll think about it.” McClaire smiled, turned, and walked away, her heels clicking on the asphalt.

“I need an answer by tomorrow morning.” She said without looking back, before slipping under the garage door. Rattling, it rolled down it’s tracks and left Martin in the dark, lost deep in thought.