AUTHOR'S NOTE -- This is part two in a series. Part One was "Driver Introductions" ...




It was the next day. It was Sunday.

Race day.

And Field, with ear-phones on ... his head went from left to right. Following his mate's car down the front stretch. It contrasted her fur, the car did. The color of the car. It was a sky-blue, with streaks of white down the tops of the side-pods. And on the tail. And on the wings up at the nose of the car.

The mouse was behind the white wall of the pits. A wall that could be easily climbed over. Most of the pit crew was on the side that Field was on. Waiting. At the speeds these cars were going at on this track, they would need to pit every thirty-five laps or so. To take on methanol fuel. Some cars had a mixture with ethanol, however. And, next year, all the cars would run solely on corn-based ethanol.

Regardless, the fuel burned invisible. The only way you could see it burning ... was to see the heat mirage. The waves in the air. The little ripples. Which is why everyone in the pits wore a fire suit. And which was why Field was in a chair on a little stand, under an umbrella. Watching the network feed. And, with the headphones on, the sound of the roaring cars was kept from his sensitive ears. Instead, he heard Adelaide's in-car radio. Her communications between the pits and her.

The mouse's tail, behind him, snaked out in the sunlight ... beyond the reach of the umbrella's umbra. Adelaide had, of course, rubbed sun lotion into his tail earlier. Anything not covered by fur needed sun lotion. That meant his tail, his ears, the tip of his nose. So that he wouldn't get burned. It was going to be hot today. Just above eighty, and mostly sunny. And muggy, too, so it was a moist heat.

Field took his eyes off the television monitor. Back to the track. She was coming round again. In the lead pack. Running third (which was basically where she'd started). Adelaide, in just over a year in this series, had yet to win a race. She had a pair of thirds last year, and this year ... had finished 8th and 4th in the two races thus far.

Now that summer was here, there was basically going to be a race every week. Or every other week.

Lumba, the other femme driver, was running sixth. Lumba was a rookie this year. But was a very keen driver. Furs from Brazil, for some reason, made good drivers. Field wasn't sure why. But, more and more, they were making their presence known in open-wheel racing, which had a more diverse range of furs ... as opposed to the stock-car ranks (which had almost exclusively American drivers).

In first place was a British fur. Daly. Running second was Chester, an American. Daly was a fox. Chester was a tomcat. Right now, there were ... about twenty-three cars on the track. Three cars had already retired from the race, and they were only eighteen laps in (out of two hundred that would be run).

Field's eyes went to the furs in the stands. The silvery, sloping stands. And all the colors. And how, sometimes, you could even hear the cheers of the crowd above the roar of all those engines. Which was really something, when you heard that. It would make your fur stand on end.

He tried, really, not to fixate on ... the fact that his mate, the one he loved more than any-fur ... she was catapulting around there at such speeds. Weaving, diving. Just ... he tried not to dwell on the fact that this was one of the most dangerous sports in the world to participate in. And though it WAS ... it was rare that a fur would die in a wreck. Every few years, it would happen. Every few years. But that was too many times, if you asked some. But everyone who participated knew the risk.

They raced because they were ultra-competitive furs. Because they loved the melding of fur and technology. Loved racing.

Because they were driven.

Adelaide was like that. Very assured. Very confident. Very driven. She wasn't like one of those furs (like Dusky ... or, at least, in Field's opinion ... that's what Dusky did) ... she wasn't one of those furs who drove to get away from themselves. Hoping to outrace everything that was burdening them. That was chasing them.

No, Adelaide raced to put on a show. For the thrill. Because she was a fur with wings. She was used to bumping and grinding with gravity. Be it from up there, in the air, or down here. With four wheels. Exposed wheels. The open-wheeled cars with the needle noses. They looked like rocket ships. They looked like shimmering grace as they tore past. As they blurred.

The roar!

Field watched her go by yet again. She was gaining on the tomcat. Had pulled up behind him, and was using his slipstream to inch closer, closer. The cars going as fast as they were, if you nestled directly behind their back wings, you could fall into a certain stream of air that would reduce your friction. All the friction fell upon the first car. You drove in their wake.

You could use that to get right up behind them, and then ... with the slightest turn of the wheel, you could go to the inside or outside, and hit the gas, and jet on by. Passing was easier on the inside. There was no wall on the inside. It was a lot harder on the outside. And not just because the wall was there. But because there were marbles there, too. Little stones of asphalt made from all the tires and the heat. Little pebbles.

However, if you went to low, you would lose it, too.

Beneath the line on the inside of the track, between the grass and the asphalt, the track was straight. The actual parts of the track that the cars drove on ...

... it wasn't straight. It wasn't flat.

It was slanted. Banked, they called it.

This track had a banking of thirteen degrees. From the wall to the inside of the track, the asphalt sloped downward. As a result, the right front tire on all the cars was bigger than the left front. Slightly bigger. To deal with the banking.

Field had always been a fan of auto racing. He was a Hoosier. Indiana was the auto racing capital of the world, so ... how could he not be?

He'd grown up with it. Auto racing and basketball. To be a Hoosier and to not like those two things ...

... never happened.

It was heritage.

He'd met Adelaide last year. Back when she'd first started. And hadn't known she was a driver when he met her. He'd been in the museum at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Looking at the old 50's Roadsters. And the turbines and stuff from the 60's. Amazing cars. The designs of those things. It would've been a wonder to see those things race. Truly. But ... how dangerous must they have been? How brave were those furs who, as the automobile was still being pioneered ... to get in those things and race around like that?

But he'd met her there.

"She's in second now," called a coyote.

Field blinked. Trying to read the predator's lips (with the earphones blocking the sound of his voice ... well, the earphones and all the other sounds coming from this track; it was a veritable cacophony, at times ... but it all came together to make some kind of music).

The coyote said it again. And then held up two fingers.

Field blinked again, looking at the scoring pylon. And then to the monitor. She'd made it past the tomcat. He'd zoned out and hadn't seen it. He'd been so lost in his thoughts ... and he nodded bashfully. Mouthing, "thanks" ... back to the coyote. Whose fur, for whatever reason, was died red. Field had been meaning to ask about that. But had been a bit nervous as to what the answer would be. And he wondered what the coyote's natural fur color must've been. Brown, certainly. Some kind of brown. Especially if he was from the Midwest, which the mouse assumed him to be.

Bell-Bell, the deer, sidled up next to Field. On the platform beneath the umbrella. Where all the radio and television equipment was. "If she wins," the deer said, raising her voice to be heard. "If she wins, it'll be crazy, you know that?"

"You say that every time ... Bell-Bell ... we're only twenty-odd laps in. Don't say anything ‘til it's over."

"You don't believes in jinxes, do you?" The deer smiled.

"Course not," the mouse defended. "I'm a Christian."

"So? Why can't I hope for it? Why can't I say she's gonna win this thing? Not a jinx, is it? And, if it were, you don't believe in ... "

" ... Fate," the mouse responded, also raising his voice to be heard. "It's tempting Fate."

The deer smiled. Giggled. And eyed the monitor. The lead pack of cars was heading into turn three. Approaching turn four. And then turning onto the front stretch. Their roar picked up pace. In the distance. Closer, closer, like coming rockets. And ...

... zoom, zoom, zoom!

Roar!

"You know you're on the TV sometimes, you know that? You know that old thing where ... toward the end of the race, they'll find the racers' mates and show them watching with baited breath. The furry interest kind of story. Sometimes, they show you," the doe said, nudging the mouse.

He twitched his whiskers at her. "I know that."

"That why you stay under this umbrella all the time?"

"I stay cause I have blue eyes."

"Uh-huh. Field ... "

"And blue eyes are the most sensitive color eyes ... most sensitive to sunlight. True story."

"I'm just saying ... come and chat with the pit crew."

"I do that after the race."

"Mm." A nod. "Well ... I'm gonna wander the pits a bit."

"Well, she's gonna be stopping in ... like, ten laps from now. Don't get in the way."

"Do I ever get in the way?" the publicist asked innocently.

"I'll choose not to answer that," the mouse said diplomatically, giving a little smile.

The doe chuckled. "Whatever, Field. I'll be back ... "

"Alright," the mouse said, nodding. Reaching for a nearby water bottle (with a tiny bit of ice inside; most of the ice had melted). He sipped from it (for the water bottle had a straw). And the doe, with her hoofed feet, clanked off.



"Tell him to ... "

"Inside, inside ... "

"Get the fucking ... "

"You're on radio. Being monitored. Control your temper. You don't wanna get fined ... " They had been fined once before ... for Dusky's use of language over the radio. Sometimes, the television broadcast would tap into the radio feeds. Sometimes, they would tap into them at a bad time. And the words would make it onto the television. Plus, furs could purchase their own radio devices that could listen to the in-car radios of every driver. A lot of the gear-head furs purchased these devices.

In any case, you could get fined for excessive use of bad language.

" ... tail out of my face! Tell him to get his fucking tail out of my face! He's blocking me!"

"Inside, inside ... "

That last voice was the voice of the spotter. Each team had a spotter. Or more than one. Spotters stationed around the track that would warn whether competing cars were behind, in front, inside, outside ... and would warn if accidents happened anywhere on the track.

"Fuck! He did it again! Dammit ... I'm gonna try the inside next time. But ... he keeps holding the inside line. He's making me pass on the outside."

"Inside, inside ... "

"Then pass on the outside," the grey-furred rabbit, the team owner, told Dusky. "You're good enough to pass on the outside. Just calm down and reel him in."

Dusky sighed over the open radio line. "Alright," he promised.

"We're in no hurry. We're gonna be making our first pit stops pretty soon, anyway. If we have a faster pit time, you can beat him back out onto the track."

Dusky didn't answer. Too flustered. He just fell back a bit, holding a less aggressive line going into turns three and four. And following steadily behind the fifth place car. He was, himself, in sixth.

"Clear ... "

Dusky focused ahead of him. Ears bent back in his helmet. Each fur's helmet was specifically cushioned on the inside to support his or her ears. The ears, upon entering the helmet, had to be gently bent. Most ears were made of cartilage, so no damage was done. Same with his ears. They were bent back beneath the fire-proof muzzle-mask he wore. But he could still hear the rumble of the car. Still feel the vibrations.

And could still hear his own thoughts.

When you were in a car driving in incredibly fast circles for three hours ... well, alone in that car, you could think about things. Oh, sure, you had your crew to talk to. And, sure, you had the race to focus on. But ... it was so hard, sometimes, not to let your mind wander just a TINY bit.

Yes, he had incredible focus. On the track, he had incredible focus.

But, off track, he had none.

Why couldn't he carry it over from one place to the other?

Yesterday, he'd made a mistake. With that other bunny. And it hadn't been the first time Dusky had made that kind of mistake. It had just been the latest.

He didn't think much of himself.

Dusky did, in fact, drive to ... outpace his problems. Outpace his demons.

Sometimes, it worked. And, hey, furs loved to hear you were a race car driver. It turned them on. It piqued their interest. And it was SO tempting and SO easy to ... do things that were damaging to the soul, perhaps. That felt good during the act, but that, afterwards ...

... left you feeling used. Empty.

Oh, he had no trouble finding partners.

But a partner was flimsy. Was for a day. A mate ... was for longer. A lifetime. He didn't want partners.

He wanted a mate.

But the racing lifestyle was one of danger. One of speed. One of constant travel and sound and (if you were a good enough, popular enough driver) ... one of press.

But how, then, do so many of the other racing furs have mates? Like Chester and Adelaide and all them ...

You know why, Dusky? You know why?

It's not your career they're afraid to commit to.

It's YOU.

Shut up, he told himself. Just shut up.

"Outside, outside ... "

"What the hell?" Dusky snapped. He was being passed on the outside by the seventh-place car. Well ... FORMER seventh-place car. They now occupied his previous position. Pushing him back one spot.

"Focus, Dusky," said the team owner.

"I'm focusing!" Dusky said tersely. He squinted through the visor of his helmet at the tail of the car in front of him.

"We're pitting, Dusky, in seven laps ... seven laps ... "



Lumba was the first to pit.

Sliding into her pit-box. The speed limit in the pit area was sixty miles per hour. Over one hundred fifty miles per hour slower than what they were doing out on the track. Thus, it was better to have a pit stop under yellow. You lost a LOT less track time that way.

But track conditions were currently green.

This would be a green flag stop. But, since every-fur was going to have to make a stop ... they would all end up cycling back into the same positions when it was done. Depending. If one fur had a much faster pit time than another ... maybe he could move up a position or two.

More positions were exchanged during yellow stops than green ones, generally. But, during green stops, there was less a margin for error. You messed up, and you were down a lap REAL fast.

She entered the pit-box. Her car was sea-green and white. Befitting of her tropical, ocean-view heritage.

The jack went up, lifting the car off the ground.

The crew-furs with the tire guns took off every tire, tossing it aside, and putting a new one on. The white sticker still on the tire. Every new tire, every fresh tire ... had a white sticker on it. New tires were called stickers. After a few laps, the sticker would wear off from the friction of running out there at so fast a speed.

Tires on. Guns drilling the bolts into place, holding the tires secure.

The fuel hose already in the spine of the car, pumping gallons of methanol in mere seconds.

The otter keeping the engine revved.

And the hose was quickly pulled, and she started moving after only eight seconds of stillness, and ...

... putter-put. Put.

She stalled the car.

The crew scrambled, quickly pulling the car back, and the otter fought her emotions. Got the car started again, and they pushed her again. The rear wheels kicking up smoke as she went. Fish-tailing a bit, and then entering the lane. Getting back on her way. The stall had used up an addition ten seconds, maybe. At eternity for a stop like this. She would lose a paw-ful of spots, for sure.

But, hopefully, they could make it up later. With her driving ability ... maybe fuel strategy. The race was still young.

But most of the crew-furs ... their tails were drooped. Less active than before. Barring able to look a fur in the eyes, you could guess their mood based on how they held their tail. Based on what their tail was doing.

Welly, the beat reporter, winced. Behind the pit wall. Feeling sorry for Lumba. As a reporter, he wasn't supposed to show bias, but ... he was secretly pulling for her to win the race.



In the end, Daly (the British fox) won. His second victory this year (out of the four races so far). He was leading the points. But he wasn't too far ahead of second and third place. The winner got, like, fifty points. Second place got thirty-five, and ... the rest of the pack went down by five-point increments.

Consistent good finishes were rewarded.

At the end of the season, the fur with the most points won the title. And got a million dollars to go with the fancy silver trophy and all that. Winning the title was every-fur's aim. Well, second aim. The first aim was always to win at Indianapolis.

But Chester had won that ... this year. In a photo finish, at that. Had beaten Dusky to the line by half a car length.

Dusky tried not to think about it. Another one of the things he didn't want to think about. It was one thing to lose something. To just ... lose. But to lose when you'd had it in your paws. That stung.

But that had been three weeks ago. The furor over that had died down a bit, and ... Chester was still being ogled over. And Dusky was back to the realms of young, volatile driver still waiting for that big win. But the fact that the rabbit was trim and attractive and (as Bell-Bell had put it) "charismatic" ... helped him gain a loyal enough following. Even though he hadn't been in the league that long.

But the rabbit sighed as he got out of his car. As he slumped against the pit wall, wearily looking around. He didn't want to be interviewed by that pesky femme that did pit-row reporting for the network. She asked the stupidest questions. Things like, "How do you feel?"

The one time he'd given an honest answer ("I lost the fucking thing ... I feel like a moron. How ‘bout you?") ... well, he'd been fined for that. His second fine (the first one being inappropriate language over the radio). He was lucky his team tolerated him. But, then, he was a great driver. They knew it. And ... well, it was a mate-ship, in a way, of convenience. He and his team. They needed each other to succeed.

They were doing their best.

"You okay?" the owner asked.

Dusky nodded quietly, unblinking, staring at the track. Watching the crowd of furs filter away. Feeling the hot, late-afternoon sun warming his shoulders and back through his uniform.

"Did a good job," the older rabbit said, squeezing the younger rabbit's shoulders.

Dusky smiled weakly. "Thanks," he whispered.

"You're just young, is all," the owner continued. Ears waggling. "You'll learn."

"Learn what?" Dusky asked blankly.

"Whatever it is you need to learn. You'll figure out how to win. And how to be happy doing it." The owner walked away, to some of the other crew-furs.

Dusky sighed, making a disgruntled face. Maybe I should just carry a sign, he mused, that reads, "Will drive for advice." He looked around. Where was Bell-Bell? Mm ... oh. Probably fending off the media hordes from mobbing Adelaide (who had finished third, tying her career best ... and tying the best finish ever by a femme ... a record which she herself had set, of course, in her rookie season last year). Adelaide must get tired, Dusky mused, of being asked "when are you going to win" ... if I were her, I would bop them on the nose.

Well, she's smarter than that.

Yeah, sighed Dusky. Mm ... well, he'd catch up with Bell-Bell later. In the meantime, he stood, slid behind the pit wall. Headed for the garage (where they would have a team meeting before he would go back to his trailer and they would drive toward next week's track).

How did one fight loneliness?

Did one smile all the time? Just smile all the time? Laugh at every joke?

He eyed the fans on the other side of the infield fence. Asking for autographs. The rabbit politely declined, making a beeline away from them. Else his raging rabbit instincts lure him into another spiritual pitfall.

Too easy. Too easy, he told himself ...

If it's too easy to attain ... it mustn't be worth it.

Where's the effort?

Shut up, the rabbit told himself (for the tenth time that day). Just smile.

Smile and wave. And hold your ears high.

Which is what he did.



"You seen Kyo?"

"What?" Field blinked. Standing outside the empty team garage. Waiting for Adelaide to get away from one of the local television reporters. Waiting for the team to roll the car back and everything.

"The, uh, red-furred coyote. He dyes his fur red. Where is he?"

"Um ... think he went in the garage to change." A pause. "Why?" The mouse blinked. Whiskers twitching. "What do you want him for?"

"Heh ... I'm his mate," said the squirrel, bounding off.

"Well," Field whispered, as she went. "Guess that answers my question."

And he paced back and forth a bit, and ... leaned against the wall of the garage. Slumping down to a sit, pulling his knees to his chest. It had been a good race. In fact, he ...

... blinked. Ears swiveling. What ...

"Oh," the mouse whispered. Kyo and that squirrel there. Wow, that was quick. And they weren't being quiet about it, either. Didn't they realize the rest of the team would be back here in about five minutes or so?

Well ... okay, from the SOUND of it, it sounded like, yes, they knew. They were obviously stealing a "quickie" in the garage. Something that Field, blushing (as if God were reading his thoughts ... which He must ... He knew everything) ... blushing, the mouse knew that he and Adelaide had messed around in plenty of track garages. Very vivid experiences. Heh ... mm ...

Sometimes, furs had to be furs.

Sometimes ... you just COULDN'T wait. It was the nature of being a fur. And as Field dwelled on this, his eyes rested on his mate. Her matted pink fur. The wings and swept-back ears of her. The gentleness. The softness. The way she held herself with such poise and strength. The way she could deal with anyone and anything.

The way she lit up rooms.

The way she lit up his life.

And, with her telepathy, she felt all this ... and blew him a mental kiss. A little spark that burst (like a soft, wandering bubble) in the front of his mind. Making him to giggle. And, the smile staying, he waited for his mate to return to him.

She'd gotten on the podium today!

That was worth SEVERAL celebrations in the trailer tonight ... but, then, they were in love. Wasn't that reason enough?



When Welly, the skunk, returned from the bathroom, he squinted. Finding a paw-written note taped to the outside of his laptop.

It was from Lumba.

"You're welcome to ride in my trailer with me ... on our way to the next race." There was a space. And at the bottom, it said, "Off the record, of course."

The skunk flushed deeply, folding the note (so that no one would see). Heart pounding and throat already dry. Well ... um ... he stared at the article he'd been writing on the screen (about the day's race). Um ...

"Writer's block?" asked a passing fur, seeing the skunk staring blankly at his screen from the shade of the track's infield offices. The skunk's paws were poised above the keyboard. But not moving.

The skunk gave a nervous giggle, nodding, saying (as the fur walked on), "Something like that."