Debutant. Chapter 2. Like an alligator on the moon. Part 1

This novel is fictional; there is no need to look for intersections with historical events. This is a continuation of “Debutant” by Nikita Savelyev, the first readers of which were readers of F1News.ru…

Debutant. Chapter 2. Like an alligator on the moon. Part One

It must be admitted that he got a powerful unit, albeit a slightly outdated model. Henry happily stepped on the gas on the half-empty highway and raced along the center line, overtaking the rare passing vehicles with sharp maneuvers. Now I would like to drive something like that and go to the race – have fun in the corners with my rivals. Henry himself favored the classic racing circuits, with an abundance of corners, and not the oval circuits that were so popular in his country. Winding paths have seemed like a tougher nut to crack for him since childhood.

Having reached the cherished majority, Henry courageously set out on an independent journey. Uncle was just happy to get rid of the restless loafer, who did not want to get involved in the sausage business. Henry always dreamed of car racing and happily immersed himself in the world of speed and excitement. Not only was it just plain cool, but it also allowed us to escape the gray, ordinary life that the majority were stuck in. Travel was considered the domain of the wealthy, and racing made it possible to travel the entire continent and even further. The war ended more than a decade ago, but people still remembered food rationing, and the concept of a luxurious life for them came down to going to the movies and a dinner of potatoes and meat, and racing allowed them to achieve incredible to earn a lot of money. Only for this it was necessary to get into the cohort of the best. Just now!

Henry at once bought a small dwarf – a small car with a low-power engine, and happily indulged in his only passion. The dwarf was soon replaced by a more powerful stock car. The aspiring racer traveled the country competing in every competition he could get to. It’s just a shame, these competitions had a semi-amateur status and made almost no profit, and the money my uncle gave me melted faster than a puddle on the asphalt on a hot day. Here you cannot help but think: putting a sausage in a bun is a pretty decent job and, most importantly, paid.

But a solution was quickly found: Henry and his racing friend Phil, an equally young slacker, bought a used racing car together and began participating in sports prototype competitions. What a time it was! Sometimes they determined who could get behind the wheel by tossing a coin, and not only the journey to the next stage, but often also lunch depended on the amount of prize money received.

Henry never considered himself sentimental, but against his will a stupid smile crept onto his face. What if you return to motorsport? Money for the delivery of a dubious package makes it easy to buy a racing car. Only three years have passed, the hands themselves will remember. He was daydreaming, idiot, and his cynical and reasonable second self immediately pulled him back. Manuel won’t let you go anywhere. Before he left, he had already hinted: if everything goes well, he is ready to offer Henry a permanent job – he urgently needs fast drivers. On the one hand it’s tempting: Manuel’s boys drive painted cars, throw money at strippers and drink expensive whiskey from their throats. Only there is a downside: one recently ended up in a police station and the other is rumored to have disappeared so completely that Pinkerton herself will not be found.

Alluring landscapes flashed by like a solid green wall: lush shrubbery, tropical trees, vast palm trees. Everything blooms and smells. Go deeper there and you find yourself in a real jungle – birds are constantly fluttering about and insects are whistling, and the green carpet squeezes under your feet. In addition, you will certainly come across a swamp covered with slippery mud, or a small lake where a melancholy alligator will certainly lurk, pretending to be an inconspicuous problem. A true paradise for tourists with cameras. Henry was more concerned about the sudden downpour. The rainy season is still far away, but the weather forecasters were somewhere on the same scale as second-hand car dealers in terms of the reliability of their predictions.

Henry reached the circuit around noon without the slightest incident, apart from the protesting honking of passing drivers. He successfully passed police patrols. None of the officers peacefully eating donuts had any idea that a potential promotion was speeding past them in the twin gas tanks of a beat-up car.

There were still a few days left before the marathon itself, but the training races were already in full swing, and at the entrance to the track there was a real Babylonian pandemonium – a real mess of people and cars. Henry plodded along like a snail in the long line of cars, half-heartedly cursing at those who tried to jump the line – he had to get as close as possible. It is better not to throw a car with precious but dangerous cargo far away.

The drive quickly became a real torture; traffic on the narrow road stopped permanently and irrevocably. A few employees of the autodrome, their voices hoarse from the constant tension, tried to resolve the situation somehow, at least giving way to cars with a pass and turning around the rest without regret. It turned out, I must admit, very badly; as a result, the flow of cars was like a turbulent river that had hit an unforgiving dam.

Of course, Henry didn’t have a pass and he gave up. A nearby field full of cars, once generously covered with grass, has now turned into a bizarre mixture of impassable dirt and fine gravel. Maybe this is an opportunity?

“There’s a spectator parking lot a few miles away,” the melancholy, rumpled employee waved his cigarette nonchalantly. Unlike the others, this unrepresentative subject was in no hurry and strolled lazily along the side of the road.

– Then what is this? – Henry nodded towards the makeshift parking lot.

“There’s no room here since this morning,” the clerk said, looking extremely philosophical.

– And what should I do? – Henry was genuinely upset as he imagined his way back through the crush of cars.

“There are places for racers in the garages inside,” the parking attendant took a closer look at his car. – Not registered yet? Get a pass and I’ll let you in.

“It won’t be long at all,” Henry said happily. “I’m just filling out the paperwork.”

– Anything else. Do you see the corner? Leave it there if it suits you,’ the conversation partner kindly extended his hand. – I will look. Just pick it up before evening, otherwise the fire brigade is nearby and our local sheriff is strict; yesterday he ordered a tractor to pull the cars out of there.

“Yes, I only need a few hours,” Henry smiled, vividly imagining what a piquant embarrassment the evacuation would prove to be, and how he would rush as quickly as he could to rescue his treasure.

Henry carefully locked the car and walked boldly straight into the mouth of the seething crowd. Excited people ran around happily in anticipation of the spectacle, some enjoying beer or soft drinks, others eagerly picking burgers or fried potatoes. Balloons flew up, children had fun, fans threw away professional conditions, lovely ladies exposed their faces to the sun, representatives of the circuit administration were busy running, racers marched proudly, stewards were arguing, mechanics were slowly bickering photojournalists carefully protected their equipment and the ubiquitous dogs escaped from under their feet.

In the scorching heat, the stands are not even a quarter full. Many spectators simply sat down on the grass, some carefully laid out a blanket, and some simply flopped down on their butts. At the starting line, athletic girls in seductive clothes trained, participants in an acrobatic show, to the accompaniment of bravura music. And close by, where the teams’ pits were undoubtedly located, the familiar, pleasantly caressing sounds of rumbling engines could be heard. How familiar everything is!

But in the workshop it is stable, you always earn a piece of bread: know how to patch up your cars, and behave like a nightingale towards simple customers, and, on the contrary, avoid understanding people. Henry had never been to a race since signing up with Jenkins. But it turns out he was bored! Once again, unnecessary thoughts crept in: to buy a new car with Manuel’s money. Henry managed it by force of will. He’s already on the other side and his worries are different now. When he first met Manuel at the gas station, who asked him to paint about the glorious racing past? If only I had kept my mouth shut, I would have avoided joining the ranks of hardline plant breeders.

== To be continued…