This story features my alter ego, a mid-fifties guy a with two intersecting loves, a younger woman and motor racing. It began with "Corner Two- Angela's Revenge", in Loving Wives and continues here. All important aspects of the original story have been incorporated into the second section of this chapter.
No Place to Play
I'm blasting toward the crest of rising pavement, unable to see what lay ahead. I need to entirely trust prior experience at this dangerous place.
The scenery is flying by so quickly that it's little more than side-vision blur. The noise is almost deafening inside this resonating, stripped out interior- in spite of the tight confines of my new racing helmet. Which is louder: eight throbbing cylinders thundering through open headers, or my pounding heart?
Maybe I am too old for this? Perhaps my concerned ex-wife is right? Am I only doing this crazy thing to impress my new girlfriend? Ha! If she knew our age difference, it would rankle her more than she'd ever admit. But there's no time to think about it because now I'm diving down into Corner Two. I hope that I set up right.
I'm Greg Carpenter, and I've been coming to watch at the track for forty years. First it was with my late father and his gearhead younger brother, then with my son and friends. My ex- came once but she didn't like the noise, especially at Corner Two, so close to the track, though spectator safe, a couple of metres above it.
Up there, fans can see the drivers' frenzied motions- steering, downshifting, braking. They're seeking the right line for a downhill, off-camber bend that throws the cars to the outside, toward the protective stacks of tires along the heavy concrete retaining wall. There's a slim margin between success and disaster here.
Now I'm flashing into the dreaded bend where I've witnessed many accidents over the years. This vintage class Grand Touring Camaro is more than a handful as the tire walls loom closer. Worse still, I'm not alone as an older Porsche comes up on the inside. The driver sees the diagonal yellow 'Novice' tape markings across the back of my car and knows I'll give way. I let up as the distinctive Brumos Racing replica eases past me with a little "Thank You" wave.
I know that Angie is there watching this, probably holding her breath like me. But I'm too focused to even glance up to the spectators. She likes the action at the corner; in fact, this is where we first met two years ago. What took place that race weekend, both at the track and on her sofa changed my life in so many good ways- apart from potentially killing myself in this race car!
Ten laps pass in less than a half hour, including time under a yellow caution flag to clean up an accident back at the hairpin turn. Not too serious, but cruising past it is sobering enough for me to ask myself again why I'm doing this? In my late-fifties, at the peak of my graphics design career, why am I behind the wheel? Am I another late-bloomer, like actor Paul Newman who took up racing in a committed way at about the same age?
Now I pull into the pits, the Camaro smoking a bit- radiator steam. I know it looks good, painted in replica late-Sixties Penske colours, blue with some deep yellow trim, the colours of then-sponsor oil company Sunoco. Yes, the same Roger Penske who still owns cars racing at the highest levels in Europe and North America.
I'm grinning from ear-to-ear. I just finished my first race unscathed- not counting those controlled events in identically prepared cars at racing school. No, this is the real thing, and it has left me shaking with post-race excitement. Sure, I finished mid-pack at best, behind most of the other vintage GT1s and GT2s, but I'm satisfied.
And so is my love Angie. Almost before the engine comes to a shuddering halt, I'm out of the car and she's on me, hugging while tugging at my helmet strap. I'm all tangled up in my neck-restraining HANS device so it takes some more time 'til I'm free. Angie is gushing, kissing my sweating face, making me feel like a conquering hero. Someone passes me a cold drink and I break free from her embrace.
Then my lovely lady has her arms around me again, on-lookers enviously chuckling at her enthusiasm. She pulls my head toward her and lowers her excited voice.
"I'm so proud of you, honey. You were amazing out there! Just wait 'til we get back to the camper."
Suddenly I remember why I took up this dangerous game. I realize now that it is almost as exciting and satisfying as the private times Angie and I have together. I know that being alone with her in my camper tonight will be just as exhilarating as rocketing through Corner Two in this old racing machine. In fact, probably even more so, if I know this remarkable, mid-thirties woman when she is revved up!
But there are two more races tomorrow, so I'll need to remember to preserve some strength to muscle this big car through twenty more laps.
"Oh, what the Hell!" I smile to myself, because with my Angie, there's just no holding back.
****
We met two years back at this same season-opening regional club racing event. She was with her husband Rocco, watching the cars speeding into Corner Two. I was nearby and quickly noticed this striking beauty: tall and slim in tight blue jeans and a fitted black leather jacket that highlighted her willowy shape. Gorgeous!
I was drawn to Angela, especially since I lived alone, divorced from my wife for several years. Now in my mid-fifties, my life was filled by my career in graphic design, an intense fitness regime, and race spectating with friends. Tall and in good shape, my male drive still craved satisfaction. But, I'm finished with the phony bar scene and silly young women.
Her husband mostly ignored Angie, and left her trapesing along behind him, trying to navigate the sloping terrain in her stylish leather half-boots. We exchanged smiles and I spoke briefly to both of them before he abruptly started out again. She shrugged her shoulders and followed, a lovely, obedient pet with those big, sad eyes.
Later that night, Angela frantically knocked on my trailer door, then burst inside with a bloody split lip. Rocco had smacked her with the back of his hand, jealous that she'd spoken to me. Her teeth had opened a bad gash, so we made a midnight run to the hospital south of the track. The ER doctor photographed and documented the wound, aware that it was spousal abuse.
I didn't want Angie to go back for more, so we continued west for an hour to their city apartment. I expected to just drop her off and return to the track for some sleep, but Angie had other plans. This beautiful younger woman surprised me with her thanks as we 'made out' like teenagers on her sofa before I finally tore myself away.
Her passion was intense as mine. Angie's relief at escaping from her abusive husband, and her long unfulfilled desires bubbled over into something that I'd been without for some time myself. Furious with Rocco and happy with her rescuer, Angie let it all out! I knew that I had to have more of this very expressive, sexual woman.
Early next morning, I'd had only a few hours of sleep when Rocco banged on my camper looking for his wife. He didn't find her, though the bloody cloth I'd used to clean up her split lip alerted his suspicions. However, he made no reply when I asked why the blood made him think Angie had been with me. I was taller and bigger than Rocco but remained polite, in case he returned with his buddies or a weapon.
In the following months we developed a secret relationship after she moved in with a girlfriend. I learned that Angela was a much-in-demand fashion model, married ten years to her agent. However, by now she was less runway queen and more catalogue cutie, usually appearing as a mother or aunt. She wasn't Rocco's meal ticket any more, so he turned his attention to younger women.
Divorce doesn't come easily or quickly here, every effort made for counselling to preserve the marriage. But after sixteen months or so, and plenty of legal expenses, Angie was free of him. 'No fault' is the law, though documentation of the split lip likely helped move things along more quickly. All their marital assets were divided evenly, my lady awarded half of all savings and investments, possessions, and pension funds- the works.
Rocco was angry about how it went down, but Angie and I were very pleased, despite the legal fees. She gave up an expensive car in exchange for her favourite contemporary art pieces, which he hated anyway. Now our modest apartment looked like a small gallery, with large canvases hung everywhere.
There had been a turning point about four months before the divorce was finalized. As we stood along the fence at Corner Two a few metres from her husband, Angie vented her rage at their failed ten-year marriage. She leaned across me and roundly cursed him out, calling him a "despicable rat" and worse.
Some might call it childish, but they don't understand the depth of hurt Angie felt. A man might have cut loose with fists or worse, but sometimes nothing is sharper than a woman's tongue. Rocco was afraid of me and slunk away defeated. It marked the bitter end, and he no longer resisted the divorce proceedings.
The night of that incident, we were making love in the camper when Angie asked me something totally unexpected. One simple question set in motion a series of events leading up to the present day.
