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flag drop and the grand marshal (who was some famous football player or coach with the Bears) say, “Gentlemen, start your engines.”
    Dale had qualified in the fifth spot, so he was inside on the third row when they started. The Chicagoland Speedway was one of those places where fuel strategy came into play, and Tim knew that Dale’s crew chief, T.J. Kelly, was one of the best.
    Early in the race, Dale had trouble getting loose in the turns, especially number three, and he dropped back. After a wreck that took out two of the top contenders happened around lap 40, the crew made an adjustment and Tim could tell the car was handling a lot better.
    Before the halfway point, one of the top points leaders, a favorite in the race who had been running at the front almost since the beginning, blew out hisright rear tire. The explosion sent rubber flying and spun him around and into the wall. On his way to the infield care center, the driver said, “I thought somebody had dropped a bomb behind me—the explosion was that loud. I figured it was either that or my driveshaft had fallen through. But it was just a tire.”
    Tim was so engrossed in the race that he didn’t realize he’d been cleaning the same air wrench for about 20 laps. It was nice and shiny when he shelved it. He turned and noticed a shadow outside the window. Kind of strange because the place was deserted.
    He opened the door and stuck his head out, looking both ways. “Hello? Anybody out here?”
    No one was there.

Chapter 9
Simulator
    JAMIE SAT IN THE COCKPIT of the #1 RS 43 watching the Chicago race from the pits. The team around her was flying through a four-tire change and refuel. The simulator allowed a student to ride along with her favorite driver or actually race with the field. The only drawback was that there was no digital spotter to talk you through. You were on your own. Jamie chose to ride with her dad and watch his technique rather than race.
    Over the weekend, the organizers gave the students a much-needed break and didn’t schedule races or activities. Most students had chosen to go home—Chad wasn’t around, and Jamie guessed he had flown to Chicago—but some had stayed behind because of lack of funds. Jamie felt she needed to work out some kinks in her passing technique, so shestayed. There were times in her recent races, especially when she found herself in heavy traffic, that she’d head into a turn and slow up too much. It was a mental leap of faith to go more than 150 mph and run up on a car ahead of you and not slow down. Instinct and safety kicked in, and you had to overcome that through seat time and experience.
    Jamie had taken a driver’s safety course in school because her dad said it was a good idea, and it also saved him money on his car insurance. She had passed easily, but she nearly scared her instructor to death. One day she passed the Velocity Racetrack and saw her dad’s hauler outside. The man at the gate let her drive inside because he knew her, and she wound up taking her instructor for a couple of spins around the track. He made her promise that no one would find out about it.
    However, somebody did and wrote a letter to the editor of the local newspaper about the incident. The teacher was disciplined, and Jamie felt bad about it.
    Fortunately for Jamie, in her kart and racing career, she had spent so much time out in front, in “clean air,” that she only had to slow down when she came to lapped traffic. Here at the driving school, it was different. These students were the best of the best, and there were plenty of times when she found herself in midpack or at the back, having to maneuver around several opponents.
    “If you’re gonna go around a car on the right side, you gotta do it,” Bud had said. “Don’t just think about it and do the pussyfoot dance.” Everyone had laughed at that line. “Mash that sucker to the floor and go. You don’t get points for being nice. You’re here to win a