Wheels

Both were favorites, with racing pundits and the crowd.

A dark horse rookie driver, Johnny Gerenz in number 44, ran an unexpected third.

Pierre Flodenhale, clearing the pack soon after Gerenz, moved up to fourth in number 29.

For twenty-six laps the lead switched back and forth between the two front cars. Then Doolittle, in 12, pitted twice in quick succession with ignition trouble. It cost him a lap, and later, with smoke pouring from his car, he quit the race.

Doolittle's departure put the rookie, Johnny Gerenz, in 44, in second place. Pierre, in 29, was now third.

In the thirtieth lap a minor mishap, with debris and spilled oil, brought out caution flags, slowing the race while the track was cleared and sanded. Johnny Gerenz and Pierre were among those who pitted, taking advantage of the noncompeting laps. Both had tire changes, a fill of gas, and were away again in seconds.

Soon after, the caution flag was lifted. Speed resumed.

Pierre was drafting - staying close behind other cars, using the partial suction they created, saving his own fuel and engine wear. It was a dangerous game but, used skillfully, could help win long races.

Experienced onlookers sensed Pierre was holding back, saving a reserve of speed and power for later in the race.

"At least," Adam told Erica, "we hope that's what he's doing."

Pierre was the only one among present leaders in the race who was driving one of the company's cars. Thus, Adam, Hub Hewitson, and others were rooting for Pierre, hopeful that later he would move into the lead.

As always, when she went to auto races, Erica was fascinated by the speed of pit stops - the fact that a crew of five mechanics could change four tires, replenish gasoline, confer with the driver, and have a car moving out again in one minute, sometimes less.

"They practice," Adam told her. "For hours and hours, all year-round. And they never waste a movement, never get in one another's way."

Their seat neighbor, a manufacturing vice-president, glanced across. "We could use a few of their kind in Assembly."

Pit stops, too, as Erica knew, could win or lose a race.

With the race leaders in their forty-seventh lap, a blue-gray car spun out of control on the steeply banked north turn. It came to rest in the infield, right side up, the driver unhurt. In course of its gyrations, however, the blue-gray car clipped another which slid sideways into the track wall amid a shower of sparks, then deep red flames from burning oil. The driver of the second car scrambled out and was supported by ambulance men as he left the track.

The oil fire was quickly extinguished. Minutes later the p.a. announced that the second driver had sustained nose lacerations only; except for the two wrecked cars, no other damage had been done.

The race proceeded under a yellow caution Rag, competitors holding their positions until the caution signal should be lifted. Meanwhile, wrecking and service crews labored swiftly to clear the track.

Erica, a little bored by now, took advantage of the lull to move rearward in the box. Kathryn Hewitson, her head down, was still working on needlepoint, but when she looked up, Erica saw to her surprise that the older womans eyes were moist with tears.

"I really can't take this," Kathryn said. "That man who was just hurt used to race for us when we had the factory team. I know him well, and his wife."

Erica assured her, "He's all right. He was only hurt slightly."

"Yes, I know." The executive vice-president's wife put her needlepoint away. "I think I could use a drink. Why don't we have one together?"

They moved to the rear of the private box where a barman was at work.

Soon after, when Erica returned to rejoin Adam, the caution flag had been lifted, the race was running full-out again, under green.

Moments later, Pierre Flodenhale, in 29, crammed on a burst of speed and passed the rookie driver, Johnny Gerenz, in 44, moving into second place.

Pierre was now directly behind Cutthroat, clinging to the lead in number 38, his speed close to 190 mph.

For three laps, with the race in its final quarter, the two fought a blistering duel, Pierre trying to move up, almost succeeding, but Cutthroat holding his position with skill and daring. But in the homestretch of the eighty-ninth lap, with twenty-four more laps to go, Pierre thundered by. Cheers resounded across the Speedway and in the company box.

The p.a. boomed: "Yes 29, Pierre Flodenhale, out front!"

It was at that moment, with the lead cars approaching the south turn, directly in front of the south grandstand and private boxes, that it happened.

Afterward there was disagreement concerning precisely what had occurred. Some said a wind gust caught Pierre, others that he experienced steering trouble entering the turn and overcorrected; a third theory maintained that a piece of metal on another car broke loose and struck 29, diverting it.

Whatever the cause, car 29 snaked suddenly as Pierre fought the wheel, then at the turn slammed head on into the concrete retaining wall. Like a bomb exploding, the car disintegrated, breaking at the fire wall, the two main portions separating. Before either portion had come to rest, car 44, with Johnny Gerenz, plowed between both. The rookie driver's car spun, rolled, and seconds later was upside down in the infield, its wheels spinning crazily. A second car smashed into the now spread-out wreckage of 29, a third into that. Six cars altogether were in the pileup at the turn; five were eliminated from the race, one limped on for a few laps more before shedding a wheel and being towed to the pits.

Apart from Pierre, all other drivers involved were unhurt.

The group in the company box, like others elsewhere, watched in shocked horror as ambulance attendants rushed to the two separate, shattered portions of car 29. A group of ambulance men had surrounded each. They appeared to be bringing objects to a stretcher placed midway between the two. As a company director, with binoculars to his eyes, saw what was happening he paled, dropped the binoculars, and said in a strangled voice, "Oh, Jesus Christ! He implored his wife beside him, "Don't look! Turn away!"

Unlike the director's wife, Erica did not turn away. She watched, not wholly understanding what was happening, but knowing Pierre was dead.

Later, doctors declared, he died instantly when car 29 hit the wall.

To Erica, the scene from the moment of the crash onward was unreal, like a reel of film unspooling, so her personal involvement was removed. With a dulled detachment - the result of shock - she witnessed the race continuing for twenty-or-so laps more, then Cutthroat the winner being acclaimed in Victory Lane. She sensed relief in the crowd. After the fatality the gloom around the course had been almost palpable; now it was cast off as a triumph - any triumph - erased the scar of defeat and death.

In the company box the despondency did not lift, unquestionably because of the emotional impact of the violent death a short time earlier, but also because a car of another manufacturer had gained the Canebreak 300 victory. A degree of talk - quieter than usual - centered around the possibility of success next day in the Talladega 500. Most in the company group, however, dispersed quickly to their hotels.

Only when Erica was back in the privacy of the Motor Inn suite, alone with Adam, did grief sweep over her. They had driven together from the Speedway in a company car, Adam saying little, and had come directly here. Now, in the bedroom, Erica flung herself down, hands to her face, and moaned. What she felt was too deep for tears, or even for coherence in her mind. She only knew it had to do with the youthfulness of Pierre, his zest for life, the good-natured charm which on balance outweighed other faults, his love of women, and the tragedy that no woman, anywhere, would ever know or cherish him again.

Erica felt Adam sit beside her on the bed.

He said gently, "We'll do whatever you want - go back to Detroit right now, or stay tonight and leave tomorrow morning."

In the end they decided to stay, and had dinner quietly in the suite.

Soon after, Erica went to bed and dropped into exhausted sleep.

***

Next morning, Sunday, Adam assured Erica they could still leave at once if she preferred it. But she had shaken her head, and told him no. An early northward journey would mean having to pack hurriedly, and would entail an effort which seemed pointless since there was nothing to be gained by rushing to Detroit.

Pierre's funeral, so the Anniston Star reported, would be on Wednesday in Dearborn. His remains were to be flown to Detroit today.

Soon after her early morning decision, Erica told Adam, "You go to the 500. You want to, don't you? I can stay here."

"If we don't leave, I'd like to see the race," he admitted. "Will you be all right alone?"

She told him that she would, and was grateful for the absence of questioning by Adam, both yesterday and today. Obviously he sensed that the experience of watching someone whom she knew die a violent death had been traumatic and, if he was wondering about any extra implications of her grief, he had the wisdom not to voice his thoughts.

But when the time came for Adam to leave for the Speedway, Erica decided she did not want to be alone, and would go with him after all.

They went by car, which took a good deal longer than the helicopter trip the previous day and allowed something of the insulation which had helped her through yesterday to creep over Erica. In any case, she was glad to be out of doors. The weather was glorious, as it had been the entire weekend, the Alabama countryside as lovely as any she had seen.

In the company's private box at the Speedway everything seemed back to normal, as compared with yesterday afternoon, with cheerful talk centering on the fact that two strong favorites in today's Talladega 500 would be driving cars of the company's make. Erica had met one of the drivers briefly; his name was Wayne Onpatti.