One would think that the hardest part of it all would have been getting rid of L.J. Martin, and that was tough. Colin and Hando were doing their best not to completely ruin the driver's reputation, but Little John did his own damage that very night in a bar when he was arrested, hospitalized and finally put himself into rehab. The newspapers were bleeding with the story, so what the team was doing to remain on the circuit kinda fell into the background.

More hard stuff followed. Dealing with changing drivers mid season, answering every question NASCAR could devise to confuse the issue, then facing the inevitable...promoting Cliff Stall to replace Colin as pit crew leader; having the physical adjustments done to the car (L.J. wasn't called Little John for nothing, the bloke was only five foot seven), and the biggest change...Colin O'Brien as the new driver.

Colin took a drag on his fag and shook his head. Years ago, long before he crossed over into this world from his own, he'd done some good, hard racing. Dirt tracks in Australia, running stock cars he'd tinkered with himself, created from rusted out old junk vehicles bought for a song and painted as prettily as his limited finances would allow. And he won. Often. But Aussie dirt tracks were not NASCAR tracks.

For years while he was with Natalie, he worked the NASCAR circuit on Pat Ralston's pit crew, thrilled to be a part of the sport but lonely being away from her so much. He left the crew to start the shop with Hando. How could he have ever known that it would lead him again to the racing world?

Hando was a genius disguised as a skinhead. He'd developed a simple but intricately designed adjustment that would make a world of difference in the engine's performance. They consciously chose to present it to NASCAR, aware that the approval process would take at least a year. But it would all work out for the best. After all, look at Michael Waltrip, his team busted in February for using an unapproved gasoline additive, a situation that penalized him and his team but could have cost Michael the remainder of the season. Better to deal with the endless questions and inspections by NASCAR officials than cope with the likes of that.

But the moment it becomes official, Colin and Hando would be facing a new quandary...whether to sell all rights to Hando's design for a cool fortune; or retain the rights and physically put the refined, new engines into any official stock car with an owner willing to pay for it. The second option would take them off the track. How did Colin feel about that? He was unsure.

All that aside, there was the immediate dilemma; Colin at the wheel. The Burlington Race Team needed to finish out the season, even if it was in last place and Hando had made it clear that all Colin had to do was keep the rubber on the pavement. He was nervous; it had been a long time since he'd been in a personally competitive situation. Granted, he had the option of playing it safe, but the moment he started his run for position, Colin realized that he wanted to do well. After all, when every car on the track ran with the same engine, it all came down to the driver. Colin still had the skill, he was still fearless, still a tactical thinker at high speeds. Maybe, just maybe he could enjoy his chance to race again...as long as he did keep the rubber on the pavement.

He dropped his cigarette butt, crushed it under his boot and climbed over the short wall into the pit. Helmet under his arm, he walked around the car and asked Cliff a few last minute questions then climbed in through the window. He settled and strapped in then snapped the net in place and tested his radio.

"Anybody out there?"

"Yes, Colin."

"Carrie, love. What are you doing in my ear, darlin'?"

"Encouraging you. I'm up in the stands. Ready to report anything you might not see coming. Go get 'em Aussie!"

He chuckled and blasted the engine to life. Slowly he circled the track and fell into his seventeenth position proudly. It was an easy four positions better than L.J. had managed for the past three races. But Colin was no fool. Seventeenth isn't so hard to attain on an empty track. Moving up would be challenging, holding his own would be tough, but falling behind was not an option. He was fucking bound and determined to end the race seventeenth or better.

The tight snake of brilliantly painted vehicles circled the track behind the pace car. Atlanta Motor Speedway. He was very familiar with it. Had often run tests on the cars there and remembered a few of the quirks the track had. Each speedway had its own personality that required specific tuning for the engine as well as the driver. Colin drove close to some of the NASCAR legends but it wasn't fazing him. He knew those blokes. Most were 'good old boys' who could share a beer and a laugh easily. But this was racing and all buddy bets were off.

The white pace car veered off the track and adrenalin made a slow acceleration through Colin's heart. The sound of the engines was deafening and he could hardly hear Cliff. It never takes long for the pack to thin. The surprise was...Colin was not among those falling behind. It felt right, smooth and easy but his brain was on overdrive, watching, calculating, drafting his vehicle until he found his comfort zone...in sixth position. All he had to do was hold his ground and it would be a success. Five hundred laps flies by quickly when you're at the wheel and boredom could set in if it seems too easy. Lap fifty-eight found him teasing at third place. Lap seventy-three and he had dropped all the way back to seventeen. But lap one-thirty had him questioning his tires and taking a pit that could cost him even ending at seventeen. But keeping the rubber on the pavement meant driving safe.

The adjustment was minimal and his pit crew was faster than lightening. Then just as Colin was rounding the tail end and regaining his missed lap, all hell broke loose. He spotted a fender several cars ahead, leap into the air and twist. This is the test of a racer. The perfect actions were all that mattered, and reaction is out of the question...reaction meant panic...and Colin did not panic. His swerve cleared him, he missed the worst of it and awaited word of a yellow flag.

In less than a heartbeat, the car directly ahead flipped and rolled, slid into the grassy off track area. "Fuck!" Colin shouted.

"Do not slow!" Cliff was yelling. AWhatever you do, do not slow down!"

"Carrie?" Colin said as calmly as possible, knowing she had an even better view than Cliff.

"Go, go, go, Col! Faster if you can. Behind you is shit you do not want to get messed in!" Her voice cried into his ear.

It was enough, Colin said a quick prayer, accelerated and plowed directly into the smoke and distortion ahead...clearing the pile up by inches and speeding away. "What's goin' on?"

Cliff growled then explained as the yellow flag had finally whipped into sight. "Three ahead of you and fuck, it looks like, five, no six or seven behind. Jesus fucking Christ, all in the span of three fucking seconds! Catch a good spot behind that pace car. You're good on gas and great on tires. Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Who's out ahead?" He had to know, it was the only way to figure out his current position while the others were frantically pitting.

"Jesus, all top three!"

"Gordon?" Jeff had been holding fourth for the past hundred laps.

"He's out, front end crushed, he's okay, getting out of the car right now."

"Junior?"

"He's good, still two ahead of you. Colin, I fucking can't even guess what happened!"

"It was three wrecks," Carrie announced. "Two ahead and one right on your tail, Colin, If you'd have slowed, you'd have been creamed!"

Smooth, easy zig-zag steering, relaxed and calm behind the pace car, Colin grinned. "Not creamed, darlin'. You got any idea where the hell I belong in the line-up?"

"Well, yes I do and I think this is right. Cliff, they just dragged car number 22 off from turn three. So, Colin, you are in fifth right now. But we need to keep an eye on Kyle Petty, they're working on his fender in the pit, if he comes back in, you'll be sixth."

"Which is fucking good," shouted Cliff. "Listen, here's the strategy, Col. You don't need to pit, so stay close to the pace car. The mess on turn three is massive and there are only twenty-two laps left. Sit tight, you might get a lap or two to actually race when they start again-"

"If they start again," said Carrie.

"Yeah if, but you know the damn officials don't like ending a race on a yellow. My bet is the pace car will be going slower every lap 'til turn three is cleared. Enjoy the leisurely drive, then blast ahead if you can. Hey...Petty's coming back in...sixth is damn respectable."

"Where was I when all this shit happened?"

"Fifteen."

"So yeah, sixth is good. Fourth would be good too."

"Col," laughed Cliff. AYou drive like you have been today, take advantage of this situation and first would suit me fine."

"Oh, me too!" Carrie yelled.

"Let me see what I can do for you two, I'll try to accommodate." Colin was grinning. He'd do what he could, but he'd do it fairly. Junior deserved the fucking race, but when the pace car left the track, he had to be prepared for someone like Colin to push hard. Might be a fun few laps, but it would be a hollow win. Fucking Junior had been leading for hundreds of miles.

Sooner than expected, Colin got his chance. With six laps to go, he ran neck and neck against young Earnhart, falling back often but regaining with strategy and guts, but when it was all said and done, Colin and the Burlington Race Team ended the race in third place.

Colin climbed out, shaking with adrenalin and feeling better than he had in a long time. His own crew was treating him like he'd won the bloody race, but considering the fact that no one, including Colin himself, expected him to make any kind of showing, it was a real success. He'd raced well against the best of the best. Story was; he was voted most likely to get pummeled in the midst of the wreckage by the ESPN announcers. Surprised the hell outta those blokes! Not too bad for an Aussie who had spend his last few years under the hood!

His knees were shaking as he tugged off his helmet and guzzled an icy cold beer. Carrie scrambled over the wall and right into his arms. He swung her in a circle and laughed. "Bloody hell!"