(Last Time)

McClaire made a mental note, and the race continued onto the fourth lap. Coming back around again, she looked and saw a dirt driveway heading up the hillside to a farmhouse. An idea popped into her head, an idea so good and so ballsy, it would put her in the driving hall of fame…

(Continuing...)

Schmidt watched in the mirror as the Ace skidded to a stop broadside in the road. It disappeared out of view off the track, but he couldn’t turn to look, busy looking into the corner. He turned in, and gently hit the accelerator, and looked back to see what happened to the Ace? He and the whole crowd watched as the Ace took flight off the wall beside him. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, as in seemingly slow motion, the red roadster crashed back down onto the road, shooting sparks and flames as it bottomed out. It rebounded, leaping back into the air, McClaire holding onto the wheel with one hand, the other arm up like she was riding a bull. Schmidt didn’t even care at this point, he let off the gas, and let the Ace bounce its way into the lead. If McClaire wanted to win that badly she could have it, but the American Sports Car Championship Race officials had something else to say about the matter. As they rounded the last corner, McClaire was met with a black flag, disqualifying her from the race. Schmidt took the white flag behind her, and as McClaire pulled off the track, he retook the lead. McClaire didn’t even bother running the last lap, she knew she was done, but it didn’t keep her blood from boiling. She had damaged her car for nothing.

As Martin came through The Gauntlet, the crowd was at a fever pitch. They roared louder than the cars, both terrified and excited as he headed for the final corner. Crossing the start finish line, he saw McClaire on the side of the road get out of her car. She looked pissed. Their eyes met for a single second as he went by, and he knew right away to stay away from her if he wanted to live. Not giving a single mind to the approaching cars, McClaire marched across the track taking off her helmet. Some of the drivers had to swerve to avoid her, and she even threw her helmet at one particularly close call. Walking into her garage area, her mechanics quickly disappeared into the woodwork as Shepherd and Lewis sat there oblivious, joking and drinking beer.

“OUT.” She hissed, the walls quivering from her voice. Lewis took one look into her eyes, and knew he was looking into the eyes of a killer. He threw Shepherd over his shoulder like a log, and scampered.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Shepherd screeched, throwing fists into his back, but he would thank him later. Schmidt would come across the line to win the race, and Martin came home in a photo finish for 4th. However, celebrations were short lived. The ASCC officials called all the drivers to a meeting.

“What and all of what’s holy, was that?” The man yelled, slamming his fist on a table. The drivers looked around, seeming confused, but all eye’s eventually centered on McClaire as her face was ruby red. She had calmed down a little, now instead of stomping the man unconscious and lighting him on fire, she would have settled for shooting him in the head.

“Yeah, you little Miss, show off!” He said grilling McClaire from across the room. “ Do you know how hard it is to get approval from the government to run these races? Do you know how much we have to pay in insurance money to run an event like this? Do you know how much it’s going to go up after your little stunt?” He let the question hang in the air, as all the other drivers wondered what the hell she did? Only her, the officials and Schmidt knew at this point.

“Well I’ll tell you, effectively immediately, ASCC has pulled it’s sanctioning of this event, no prizes will be paid, and no championship points either! All racing teams are to get out of the state of New York as fast as legally possible. If you want to complain, direct it at Miss McClaire back there!” The man said point aggressively.

“What did she do?” A voice from the crowd finally asked.

“She used a private driveway to cut the track.” The official said and suddenly the room erupted.

“Oh and that justifies shorting us like this?” Angry voices yelled in some way or another.

“She intentionally jumped her car, towards the crowd, into The Gauntlet. It was a blatantly reckless maneuver that could have gotten someone killed!”

“So?” McClaire hissed.

“So?! You want to kill someone else McClaire, because we’ve already had some fatalities today in the endurance race! You want to add to that number? Then start with yourself! That goes for all of you worthless drivers! Any of you drivers who think that was justified, disappear and don’t bother coming back!” The room exploded, chairs got thrown as a mob of angry race car drivers marched towards the official. It was about to get bloody when Jack Martin finally spoke up…

“Racing is a dangerous Sport, Road racing especially…” He yelled, focusing the attention on himself. However, then McClaire spoke, her voice silencing everyone in the room.

“You don’t care about how dangerous this sport is. Death sells. I think we can agree we drivers climb into these cars accepting that if we make a mistake, we could die. The crowd comes to watch, lining the roads, accepting that they could die too but that isn’t their fault. It’s you that put the stands inches from the road, it’s you that let people wander onto the track, and somehow, it’s you, a Leech, that gets rich either way regardless of who dies!” The crowd of racing drivers cheered in unanimous agreement as McClaire stepped towards the official.

“I don’t give a fuck who your family is McClaire, you touch me and you’ll be banned from sportscar racing worldwide!” His threat went in one ear and out the other as McClaire slammed him up against the wall, staring into his eyes.

“If you cared who this sport killed, you would build us a track to protect the fans. Not an airport, but a real racing track like Indianapolis. We don’t care if we live or die, it’s a risk we take everyday, it comes with the sport! But the Blood of the spectators slain by racing doesn't lay on the hands of the drivers. We do our best to avoid tragedy every lap but sometimes it can’t be avoided when we drive into a sea of people! It’s the greedy businessman behind the scenes willing to do anything to save a buck that has that honor!”

“Let go of me McClaire!” The man tried to demand but it came out like a plea, but she slammed him against the wall again.

“It’s greedy business people like you! Maybe you should get a taste of your own medicine?” She whispered, eyes glowing.

“Tracks are expensive McClaire…” The official squeaked.

“Then send me the bill!” She threw the man to the ground, and he desperately crawled away, but found the feet of a very unsympathetic crowd.

“But today, you're going to pay Schmidt, and the other winners from today, you’re going to award points for today, and you’re going to pay for whoever died today’s funeral too! If not, I’ll bury you six feet under the start line in concrete.” And with that, McClaire stormed out. The drivers glared down at the ASCC official, and like a mouse, he quickly ran scampered away. Points and Prizes did get awarded, and the next day, the ASCC announced the construction of the Watkins Glen International Raceway, the first race set for 1956. In the press, ASCC spokespersons across the country said the track was in response to “Driver complaints about safety of road racing.”