August, 14th 1955

1:13pm, Portsmouth Universal Stadium

Appalachian Grand Prix

“Hotshot” Shepherd took the green flag for his speed trial with his balls in his throat as hung on for dear life. He was driving some sort of frankenstein machine, a shortened MG frame with a Rocket 88 motor strapped to it, and the steering and suspension off of a 32 Ford. It was a car purpose built for racing in bullrings like this one. Single seat, open wheeled cars like this one were known as Speedway Cars here in the states. They were similar to a Grand Prix car in Europe, if it had been made by a bunch of drunk hillbillies with free roam of a junkyard. That’s not to say they weren't fast, competent drivers could wheel them around the quarter mile long course in about 12 seconds, but they were crudely made death traps compared to a production car or their european equivalents, with the driver literally sitting on the fuel tank in some cases.

Portsmouth Universal Stadium was first and foremost a football field, home to the first national Football team, The Spartans. It had a quarter mile long sprinter’s track around the outside of the field and a large concrete grandstand that surrounded it, and today it was hosting the first Appalachian Grand Prix. The event attracted all sorts of new talent and car builders alike, as the flexible rules allowed for just about anything your mind could imagine, and 53 teams were attempting to qualify for the 20 car field. Jackie Shepherd was one of them, but as he turned into the first corner he wished he wasn’t. The car was horrifyingly unstable and the capacity crowd of over 8000 people were on their feet watching as the 16 year old battled the car for his life. It wiggled and waved, threatening to snap back the other way into the concrete wall. Somehow Shepherd managed to keep it together. He hesitated on accelerating onto the back straight, he was scared beyond belief. But the Mafia was hot on his tail, and if he didn’t get the money to pay them soon, he would be dead either way. So reluctantly he put his foot back to the metaphorical floor, because the car didn’t have a floor, and wheeled it into the second corner.

No matter what happened, Shepherd had no one to blame but himself. On his 14th birthday he borrowed money he couldn’t pay back from the mob, had a fake ID made, and the next week started racing the next week in a VW Beetle at the Bridgehampton circuit on Sag Harbor, New York. He did well enough he was able to buy some more time, with his race winning going directly to paying his debt, but after two years things were starting to close in. His Porsche was becoming outdated by Jack Martin’s Porsche 550, and Stephanie McClaire’s AC Ace, and the slower “one make'' series didn’t pay enough. He needed an out, so he hatched a new plan, quickly he pawned the Porsche coupe after the race at Put-in-Bay, and built a Speedway car from scratch using parts out of a junkyard. Now he was on the verge of dying in it, fighting it all the way as he started his second and final lap of the trial.

In the crowd, a curious Stephanie McClaire watched. August was a off month for sports car racing, and she and a lot of the other 2000cc class drivers had heard about Shepherd entering the Appalachian Grand Prix. She had come to watch, however, she was starting to somewhat regret her decision. There was nothing she liked better than watching an underdog win something, but clearly Shepherd, even if he did make it into the race, had no chance. Running by himself he was fast, but out of control the entire time. With other cars on the track with him, he was likely to kill himself. She snuck away from the captivated audience, and headed for the paddock.

Shepherd beat the hell out of the steering wheel as he came back into the staging area. He couldn’t admit to himself he was scared, he had a problem admitting things to himself. Just like at Put-in-Bay where he pushed his brakes on his Porsche to the point of failure, here he couldn’t come to grips with the fact the car had a mind of its own. He wasn’t driving it, it was driving him. Climbing out, he grabbed a wrench and went to work trying to set the car up to make it more stable. He had never run an oval before, so it was all a guess in the dark. A little tow out here, a little camber there, who knows? McClaire arrived as he crawled out from under his car.

“Jackie Shepherd?” She asked, but Shepherd didn’t even look at her.

“Sorry Doll, I’m a little busy at the moment…” He said in his New York Accent

“I can tell, you're as red as when Bob threw you through the window.” McClaire laughed crossing her arms.

“Look, I was told he was going to pay for that, I lost the fi… Hold on a second, I recognize you? You’re the broad with the AC aren’t you?” Shepherd asked.

“I could be, or I could be a figment of your imagination?” McClaire joked but Shepherd wasn’t amused.

“Ha, ha, very funny. Now what the hell are you doing here Miss whatever the fuck your name is? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I heard the famous Hotshot Shepherd was trying to break into the world of Oval racing, so I figured I’d come and join the fan club. Clearly I Missed the autograph sessions…” McClaire teased. She walked around him, motioning to the empty area around his workspace.

“Man. are you just here to be a bitch or what? Because I’ll happily smack that stupid ass smile off your face!” Shepherd said getting in her face, his temper starting to boil. McClaire laughed at him and then calmly said.

“You're the only bitch here Shephy, you left a trail of fluid around the whole track and not one drop of it came from your car. I want to help, but quite frankly, you’re being an asshole. So bring it down a notch.”

“Oh… I’m the asshole, I’ve heard that one before… So why do you want to help me huh? Let me guess, The Don sent you to give me a little pep talk?

“The Don? Have you been screwing with the Mafia Shephard?” McClaire asked.

“You saying you’re not with them?” He hissed.

“No, I’m really here because you nearly killed yourself three times in two laps. If you think you can handle fifty laps in that thing, you better think again.” McClaire’s voice suddenly became serious and after a pause, Shepherd muttered.

“Can I trust you?”

“It sounds like you're going to have too. Is that why you're out here driving this deathtrap, the Mob?” McClaire asked and Shepard nodded.

“They’ll kill me if I lose. I’ve got nowhere else to run.”

“Okay, then here’s what you do. Go to the race organizer and get on your knees. Tell him you have another prototype car and it will be here tomorrow morning, and if he lets you have one last chance to qualify before the race, even if you get pole you’ll start dead last. Got all that?”

“What?” Shepherd stuttered confused.

“I’ll get you a car you can actually handle. Bring it back in one piece, and we’ll talk about your Mob issue. Deal?” McClaire offered.

“Why would you help me?” Shepherd said, barely able to hide the tears forming in his eyes.

“Because the Mob are a bunch of assholes, and I don’t like how they work. Do we have a deal?” McClaire repeated.

“Yeah, God I hope you're for real…” Shepherd said humbled.

“Hahaha, I guess we’ll see tomorrow huh?” McClaire giggled. She got up close to Shepherd's ear and whispered. “One more thing, total my car, and you’ll wish the Mafia got you!” Shepherd nodded, and they split up. Shepherd to find the race officials, and McClaire to make a phone call.

The next day, a mysterious blue car with white stripes arrived on the back of a truck. It was unlike anything anyone had seen before, as the engine sat behind the driver like in a VW. It was tiny, with an extremely narrow body looking more like a go kart crashed into a canoe. This was McClaire’s Jr Formula car, a 500cc motorbike engined prototype she had helped design. Shepherd thought at first this was some sort of cruel joke, that was until he took it around the parking lot.

“Holy shit, this thing is awesome.” he grinned in the driver’s seat.

“Yep.” McClaire chirped, she looked like a proud parent! A nervous proud parent, but a proud one all the same. However she sensed trouble was on the horizon. As Shepherd motored away towards the track’s entrance, a well dressed man quickly intercepted the race organizer. Without a word exchanged, he handed him a suitcase and a letter and walked away.

As arranged, Shepherd would get one flying lap, a last ditch effort to qualify for the race. Heading out onto the track, Shepherd felt confident. This car was both more agile and more stable. Gliding through the corners at max speed, he barely had to brake. Just touching them on the way in, with his foot planted on the accelerator for the rest of the lap. The little 500cc engine sounded very different from the field of V8’s yet his time was competitive, running a 12.78 lap. Under normal circumstances, it would have been good for 9th, but today it was just good enough to get him into the show. After he was told he would qualify, Shepherd couldn’t help but cry.

An hour and a half later, as fans packed the stands, as the now 22 car field paraded around the track behind the pace car. Beside Shepherd, a second provisional starter in what looked like a lightly modified 1930’s Bugatti paced. The announcer had introduced him as Tony Bleavins from Connecticut, but there was something about him and his high dollar machine that made everyone doubt that was true. Shepherd was especially nervous, it wouldn’t be unlike the mob to send their own driver to bet against him. McClaire was thinking exactly the same thing as she watched the cars pace around the track. She hadn’t mentioned seeing him bribe his way into the race to Shepherd as his confidence was shot from yesterday. He needed to focus if he wanted to have a chance. Soon the pace car peeled off the track into the football field, and as they rounded the final corner, the leaders accelerated towards the green flag.

Shepherd at first, was left behind by the eight and twelve cylinder cars. They were much faster getting up to speed, but had to slow down massively for the corners, long, flat, 180 degree turns that seemed to go on forever. As the whole field checked up into the first turn, Shepherd caught back up, he flung the car into the corner and had to hit the brakes too. He nearly crashed into the back of the Bugatti as he followed him through the corner. Ahead, a white roadster numbered 32 spun to the inside of the track. Plunging through the smoke, Shepard accelerated and was amazed. Now up to speed he was keeping up with the other cars on the straights. Unlike his older car and most of the vehicles in the field using a direct drive system, McClaire’s prototype had 4 speed transmission. The gear ratio for 3rd was perfect, the engine revving to redline just before diving into the turn.

Coming out the second corner to complete the first lap, Bleavins knocked a chugging Ford powered car out of the way and Shepard followed him through the gap on the inside of the track. With a lap down already, he knew he needed to get moving but that was easier said than done. All the cars hugged the inside of the track as it was the shortest way around the oval. He didn’t really have a front bumper, with the car’s cigar shape, so he couldn’t knock cars out of the way. Plus the small size of the prototype ment it wasn’t exactly intimidating either. So, reluctantly he wheeled the car up against the wall and tried to pass the Bugatti. The outside was guarded by a tall concrete wall that was just begging to rip a wheel off. Shepherd gulped, watching as banners on the wall reached out to touch the tire. He had no idea how fast he was going, but coming out of the corner, squeezed between the wall and the black Bugatti it felt like a million miles per hour. Shifting to 4th, he held his ground, and around the outside of the second corner, took the position.

“YEAH!” He cheered, and just like that, he was out of here. He climbed the field quickly and 39 laps in, Shepherd and the prototype had climbed to 6th. Bleavins and the Bugatti followed close behind in 8th. Now on the pointy end of the field, passing around the outside was no longer a viable option. The top 5 had alcohol powered V8 motors making double the power of the little motorbike engine, so he could get alongside in the turns, but with a clear track ahead of them, they would power past on the straight. Not wanting to get smashed into the wall, he decided to follow for a while. In the tiny mirror, Shepherd watched as Bleavins spun a car. It careened into the infield and rolled over, the driver being thrown clear. Looking up, the flagman had the green and checkered flag crossed. They had passed halfway. Suddenly Shepherd got a jolt straight to the spine. The Bugatti crashed into him as they slowed for the first turn.

“ASSHOLE!” Shepherd screamed, flipping off Bleavins, but then he had an idea. He pulled the prototype up against the wall and lifted off the throttle, letting the Bugatti by. He continued flipping him off and fell in behind him. Maybe Bleavins could go beat up on the leaders for a little while and slow them down. Laps continued to click by until suddenly an explosion rocked the back straightaway, Two cars had collided, and ignited into a fireball as they spun off the track. The track was covered in burning fuel, and even before the yellow or red flag had come out, a fire engine raced across the last turn.

“Shit…” Shepherd swore, standing on the brakes, as did everyone else. The whole field screeched to a stop, as the firefighters extinguished the two cars. The drivers lost somewhere in the blaze. Suddenly one appeared, covered head to toe in flames. He sprinted to the stream of water, and jumped, landing on his stomach as the firefighters put him out. The second driver was still no were to be seen though, and a couple of the drivers still in the race climbed from their cars and ran into the blaze. Together they drug the driver out of the flames, he was unconscious and still burning. After they put him out, the medics quickly checked to see if he was still alive. Amazingly he was, and soon an ambulance arrived to take him to hospital. The two drivers who got out of their cars pushed their vehicles off to the inside of the track, they understandably didn’t want to continue. Soon the pace car backed up to the front of the field, and slowly they began moving again. (To Be Continued in Part 2)