Trackside

Evolution

Lightning's career takes a temporary nosedive in the face of Doc's death.

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The media called it a slump. Racing analysts across the country questioned if Rusteze's brief stint as a regular championship contender was at an end.

"The brightest stars burn the quickest."

"A broken team with no crew chief cannot mentally compete, and racing is 50% mental endurance."

"McQueen just doesn't have it in him anymore."

No one stopped to acknowledge that the team was still grieving. The news of the death of the Fabulous Hudson Hornet spread like wildfire, eliciting an onset of well-wishes, condolences, and semi-genuine support toward Team Rusteze. But that was four months past. The racing world moves on quickly. Two weeks after the news broke, things were back to normal.

Except they weren't. Nothing had changed. It hurts less to forget and move on, and that's something the ever positive Piston Cup racing series is quite good at. Write down a name and a biography in a history book and move right along. Focus on the now. Focus on the bright side of racing. The Fabulous Hudson Hornet was immortalized, it wasn't like he was really gone.

But the Piston Cup didn't know Doc. They didn't know the car behind the name, that harsh judge, that caring doctor. And Lightning hated it. The one car that meant so much to him, that the sport claimed to have such a connection to, no one else knew him. They forgot him. At will! Instantaneously! Like there wasn't still an empty stand on pit row. Doc was glaringly absent.

Lightning wanted to be frustrated. He wanted to be angry at someone, anyone who had let this happen. But let what happen? Let Doc die? No one saw it coming, except maybe Doc, but they'd never know. Let everyone forget? They'd claim they hadn't forgot, that he'll forever be remembered. They wouldn't understand. Who was "they"? Lightning didn't even know the answer to that.

It had been four months. They'd had plenty of time to regroup. The team was working harder than ever before to compensate for lacking performance. Guido changed tires flawlessly. Fillmore always delivered on fuel. But something was still missing. Lightning knew it was him. His mental game wasn't just skewed, it was nonexistent.

There's something inherent in nature itself that when your environment changes, you change, too. You have to adapt. It's law. Whether you like it or not, you evolve to fit the world around you. And Lightning had fought this for four long, long months. That silence on the radio, only broken with occasional factual, emotionless updates regarding tire pressure, fuel mileage, and pit sequence was killing him. He needed something more. He needed someone to jest at him when he made a mistake, someone to bad mouth the other racers as they screwed up around him. He needed Doc.

California. It happened at Los Angeles, on a day that almost mirrored the day the tiebreaker race took place. Bright, abundant sunshine, not too warm. It was beautiful. The atmosphere placed Lightning at unusual ease as the team arrived and unpacked in the garages. There was something familiar on the breeze that day, like Doc was there.

"You ready, Stickers?"

He turned and looked at Sally. He smiled, she offered one in return.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he replied.

Sally's soft smile faltered. Some days were better than others, they both experienced them. The tone in his voice, the flitting of his gaze said more than his lie of a response.

"What's wrong?"

She asked the question like she didn't already know the answer. At this point, it was almost routine, and honestly, she didn't expect a great answer. Another lie, another half truth, maybe.