Scarlet Thunder Read Online Free PDF Page A

he had a lawyer’s neat haircut. He wore dark dress pants and a white polo shirt, neatly ironed. His face was tanned, with crinkles around his eyes and at the corners of hiswide smile. I’m seventeen and everyone over thirty looks ancient to me, so I could only guess his age as somewhere between thirty-five and dead.
    â€œYeah,” I shouted back.
    â€œTim Becker,” he said. He stuck his hand out. I shook it. The breeze running across the track pulled at my hair. But his hair stayed neatly in place, like he’d made a helmet with two cans of hairspray.
    â€œI do public relations for Sandy Peterson,” he said.
    â€œHi,” I said. “I’m Trenton Hiser.”
    Only Uncle Mike called me Trent. I had decided that when I got famous, I would always insist that the world call me Trenton.
    He nodded. “Thought so. Where’s your uncle? I hear you guys are on a tight schedule, and Sandy’s the next car on the track.”
    â€œMy uncle does things his way,” I answered. This guy’s unspoken criticism of Uncle Mike bugged me. I didn’t feel like adding that Uncle Mike’s way at this moment included scrambling to rent equipment.
    â€œGood, good,” Tim said, keeping his smile wide. “I like to hear he’s in control.”
    He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. In that time, the car on the track flashed the length of about five football fields.
    The car slowed and entered the pit road. It became quieter around us but not totally quiet. It seemed like there was always the sound of revving engines. But with no car screaming around the track, the sound of other engines dropped to background noise.
    Tim pointed at a large electronic clock and whistled admiration.
    â€œLook at that lap time—29.568 seconds. Close to the track record. Sandy’s got her hands full if she wants to start near the front.”
    I knew this track was 1.058 miles long. I quickly did the math. The average time was 120 miles per hour. Average, including corners. I bet he’d gone up to two hundred on the stretches. This was the kind of drama that made for a good show. Again, I wished we were filming.
    â€œTell me a bit about what it takes to have a good run,” I said. The more background I knew, the better.
    â€œSure,” Tim said. “That’s part of my job.”
    He pointed at the track. “See that ribbon of rubber?”
    My eyes followed his finger. I saw a long thin line on the track, rising in places and dipping in others.
    â€œDrivers call that the fast groove,” Tim continued. “The cars lay down that rubber as they follow the best line around the track. They need to enter some turns high and come out low. With other turns, the opposite is true. It all depends on how the turn is banked. The secret is to find the line.”
    He moved his arm to show me some skid marks leading to the concrete wall that banked the track. “Of course, there are some lines you don’t want to follow. That driver might have been on the right line, but at the wrong speed. You see the result.”
    I nodded.
    â€œThe right speed is everything,” Tim said. “You’ve got to push it to the absolute maxbecause pole positions are determined by the hundredths or thousandths of a second. A half second can cost you up to twenty-five pole positions. On the other hand, if you hit the turn too fast, you slide out of the groove. You might not crash, but it will put you out of rhythm for the next corner and cost you time.”
    The loudspeaker announced that Sandy Peterson was about to enter the track.
    â€œYou watch,” Tim said as we both looked to the pit road for her bright red car. “She’ll stand on the throttle and try to build some heat into her tires. This isn’t a race, so she doesn’t need to worry about wearing them out. She just wants them hot and sticky as soon as possible.”
    He was right. She roared onto