Braking Points Read Online Free PDF Page A

and my best friend, Holly Wilson, a petite, polished redhead from Tennessee. A dozen members of the Sandham Swift team and crew were elbow-to-elbow in the crowded room with at least a hundred other members or fans of the racing world.
    My head hurt. “Please tell me I didn’t really say ‘redneck.’ Tell me I didn’t lose my temper at a fan for the first time ever.”
    â€œYou sure did.” Mike smacked his lips as he polished off his second Leinenkugel lager.
    Tom nodded. “It was quite a speech. As your team publicity guy, I have to say it was ill-advised.”
    I dropped my head into my hands and groaned.
    â€œBut as your friend,” Tom went on, “your response was magnificent.”
    I looked up in surprise. “Really?”
    â€œI have to agree, sugar,” Holly said. “It was a moment of glory. I wish I’d been there to see it, though at least I’ve caught it on the news three times—make that four.” She pointed a red-tipped finger to a television mounted above the bar. “In some ways it’s a feminist battle cry. In other ways…you called him a redneck.”
    â€œI didn’t, exactly.” I caught her look. “Maybe no one will notice.”
    To ignore their pitying expressions, I studied the history around us. “Siebkens” referred to the Siebkens Inn, where I was staying that weekend, a collection of white, two-story clapboard buildings, originally built in the early 1900s and clustered together on a single, large block. But Siebkens also referred to the Tavern, properly the Stop-Inn Tavern, famous as the best bar on the racing circuit.
    Drivers and fans had come to Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, since the 1950s for great motor racing, and they’d been showing up to Siebkens every bit as long. Newer, trendier hotels and resorts appeared over the years, but the racing world had never deserted Siebkens and its Tavern. Everyone in racing had been to the bar at least once to meet friends, order a pub meal, and down a beer or two—and everyone at a race weekend showed up there, too.
    The Tavern’s décor bore witness to its colorful history. The walls, ceiling, and pillars were plastered with bumper stickers, flags, signs, and any other racing-related item that could be stuck or pinned. I liked to sit where I could see the “Sandham Swift Racing” sticker Mike and I had posted and signed the previous year.
    But this time I was glad to be sitting with my back to the Tavern’s north wall, near the steps leading to the screened porch, able to watch the room. The reception I’d received so far from the racing world was mixed. Some people were openly supportive, such as the other drivers and crew from Sandham Swift and my friends sitting with me. Two or three individuals, including a prototypically East Coast preppy guy, were outright angry. If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding on the floor of a thousand wounds. I tried to ignore those.
    Much of the response was cautious, with the most speculative looks coming from four guys standing together: Felix Simon, two print journalists, and Scott Brooklyn, who reported for SPEED when he couldn’t drum up a driving gig. The public might think I’d wrecked Miles on purpose, ignoring or not knowing wrecking was the last thing a racer set out to do. But other drivers and teams in the ALMS—even the media—would know I didn’t crash deliberately. Instead, they’d be asking themselves if I was good enough. If I’d been unable to handle the pressure, the weather, and the celebrity driver. Was this a one-time thing, or had Kate choked?
    I’d finally seen a replay of the accident, which showed Miles and me in our cars, ricocheting like pinballs between the concrete walls of the Kink, racking up damage instead of high score. The video confirmed my growing suspicion, and race control’s determination, that Miles and I shared fault for