A quick glance out the driver’s side glass revealed the distance between Hector and the 19 of Emmit Swann. One might fit a fire hydrant between the cars as they drifted toward the wall on the outside of turn one.

Hector slammed the transmission back into third and burried the throttle, holding his line into the front esses. His Acura had a speedometer and a tach, but he timed his shift by the feel and sound of the machine. It hit that note and vibrated in that distinct way, and he shifted. Fourth now, look for the marker.

Tree, sign, tree, brake! raced his mind as the first right-hander approached. The 19 was still there, seemingly in sync, decelarating alongside Hector, but out of position for the turn.

Hector swung into the first bend of the slolom, burped into third, and reversed direction for the left-hander. This forced the 19 to hesitate and allowed Hector to slide in front with inches to spare.

He glanced in the mirror momentarily and leaned into the final slolom, balancing the throttle.

Fourth.