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I am coming to share that passion for cars, and even took a High-Performance Racing school at Stevens Racing at Hallet Raceway
(enjoying it very much, thank you). That, by the way, is the same track Mark Shepherd and I set Wheels of Fire at. We re currently
thinking about getting a Catterham Seven, which is a new old Lotus Seven, and doing vintage racing and autocross but I digress.
In this case, we took the Mother of Modern Dance, Isadora Duncan, and gave her a little more common sense. We also had her
born about 25 years later than she actually was, so that she participated in World War Two rather than World War One. But yes, in
WWI, she did drive an ambulance for the Allies. As for her prot�g� Jimmy, well, we made his fate a lot kinder, too.
Dance Track
Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
Dora blew her hair out of her eyes with an -impatient snort and wiped sweat off her forehead. And
simultaneously adjusted the timing on the engine, yelled a correction on tire selection to her tire man, and took a quick
look out of the corner of her eye for her driver.
He wasn t late yet. He liked to give her these little heart attacks by showing up literally at the last possible
moment. She would, of course, give him hell, trying to sound like the crew chief that she was, and not like his mother,
which she was old enough to be
And most certainly not like an aging lover, which half the Bugatti team and every other team assumed she was.
The fact that they weren t had no bearing on the situation. Dora had been well aware from the moment she joined Bugatti at the end of
the war that her position in this part of Man s World would always be difficult. That was all right; when had she ever
had an easy life?
All right! She pulled clear of the engine compartment, hands up and in plain sight, as she had taught all her
mechanics to do. Too many men in Grand Prix racing had missing fingers from being caught in the wrong place when
an engine started but not on her team. The powerful Bugatti engine roared to life; she nodded to the mechanic in
Jimmy s seat, and he floored the pedal.
She cocked her head to one side, frowning a little; then grinned and gave the mech a thumbs-up. He killed the
engine, answering her grin, and popped out of the cockpit just as Jimmy himself came swaggering up through the
chaotic tangle of men and machines in the pits.
She knew he was there by the way the men s eyes suddenly moved to a point just behind and to one side of her.
They never learned or else, they never guessed how they gave themselves away. P r o b a b l y
t h e l a t t e r ; t h e y w e r e m o s t l y
I t a l i a n , s t e e p e d i n g e n e r a tions of presumed male
superiority, and they would never even think that a woman could be more observant than they, no matter how often
she proved it to them.
She pivoted before Jimmy could slap her butt, and gave him The Look. She didn t even have to say anything, it was
all there in The Look.
He stopped, standing hip-shot as if he were posing for one of his famous publicity shots, his born-charmer grin countering
her Look. The blue eyes that made millions of teenage girls suffer heart-palpitations peered cheerfully at Dora through
his unruly blond hair. He d grown a thatch over his eyes for his last movie, and hadn t cut it yet. He probably
wouldn t, Dora reflected. His image as a rebel wasn t just an image, it was the real Jimmy.
She pulled her eyes away from his, and The Look turned to a real frown as she took in the dark ankle-length
trenchcoat and the flamboyant, long silk scarf he wore.
Out, she ordered, and watched his grin fade in surprise. You heard me, she said when he hesitated. You know
the pit-rules. Nothing that can get caught in machinery! God help us, that scarf could get your neck broken! I told you
once, and I meant it; I don t care how many movies you ve made, in here you re the Bugatti rookie-driver, you re here
on probation, even if you are the best damn driver I ve ever seen, and you toe the line and act like a professional. And
if you think you re going to make me break my promise not to compete again by getting yourself strangled, you can
think again! Now get out of here and come back when you re dressed like a driver and not some Hollywood gigolo.
She turned her back on him, and went back to the crew changing the tires, but she did not miss his surprised and
suddenly respectful Yes ma am! She also didn t miss the surprised and respectful looks on the faces of her
mechanics and pit-crew. So, they didn t expect me to chew him out in public. She couldn t help but see the little nods,
and the satisfaction on the men s faces. And she hid a grin of her own, as she realized what that meant.
The last rumors of her protege being her lover had just gone up in smoke. No lovelorn, aging female would lay into
her young lover that way in public. And no young stud would put up with that kind of treatment from a woman, young
or old, unless the only position she held in his life was as respected mentor.
She raised her chin aggressively, and raked her crew with her stern gaze. Come on, come on, pick it up, she said,
echoing every other crew chief here in the pits. We re running a race here, not an ice cream social! Move it!
Ready, Miz Duncan, said a sober voice at her shoulder. She turned to see Jimmy was back already, having
ditched the coat and scarf for the racing suit of her own design. His helmet tucked under one arm, he waited while she
looked him over critically. Nothing binding? she asked, inspecting every visible seam and wrinkle. It was as fireproof
as modern technology could make it, asbestos fabric over cotton, covering the driver from neck to ankle. Thick
asbestos boots covered his feet, which would be under the engine compartment. It would be hotter than all the fires of
hell in there, but Jimmy would be cooler than most of the other drivers, who shunned her innovations in favor of
jerseys and heavy canvas pants.
And he would be safer than she had been, who d won the French Grand Prix in 48 in a leotard and tights.
And if she could have put an air-conditioner in there, she would have. Temperatures in the cockpit ran over 120
Fahrenheit while the car was moving worse when it idled. In the summer, and at those temperatures, strange things
started to happen to a driver s brain. Heat exhaustion and the dangerous state leading up to it had probably caused
more crashes than anyone wanted to admit.
She finished her inspection and gave him the nod; he clapped his helmet on a full head helmet, not just an
elaborate leather cap, but one with a face-plate and strolled over to his car, beginning his own inspection.
Just as she had taught him.
While the mechanics briefed him on the Bugatti s latest quirks and Grand Prix racers always developed new
quirks, at least a dozen for each race, not counting intended modifications she took a moment to survey the nearest
crews. To her right, Ferrari and Lola; to her left, Porsche and Mercedes.
Nothing to show that this was Wisconsin and not Italy or Monte Carlo. Nothing here at the track, that is. She had
to admit that it was a relief being back in the U.S.; not even the passing of a decade had erased all the scars the War
had put on the face of Europe. And there were those who thought that reviving the Grand Prix circuit in 46 had been
both frivolous and ill-considered in light of all that Europe had suffered.
Well, those people didn t have to invest their money, their time, or their expertise in racing. The announcement that
the Indianapolis 500 would be held in 1946 had given those behind the project the incentive they needed to get the
plans off the drawing board and into action. The Prince in Monaco had helped immeasurably by offering to host the
first race. Monte Carlo had not suffered as much damage as some of the other capitals, and it was a neutral enough
spot to lure even the Germans there. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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