The Thunder Road

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Rex had been riding high on the outside on the north curve that day, way back in April of last year. It was the thirty-seventh lap of the Florida Cup, and Will Karnery, his buddy, had hit the oil slick just as he straightened out.

Will’s wagon had twisted and hurtled up at Rex Dorman. Rex had yanked down toward the inside rail and Will had cleared by inches, smashed through the high outside rail. For one horror-filled moment his car, his body, were separate against the pale sky, soaring out to fire and death.

Rex went into a flat spin that ended against the inside rail at a dead stop. Fourteen thousand spectators saw him climb out, throw down helmet and gloves and walk steadily across the infield toward the gate.

And if he’d kept going he might have won. He would certainly have placed.

Steve, my red-headed daughter, stood beside me at Will’s funeral. We saw Rex there. He looked right through us. And some of Steve’s tears weren’t for Will. They were for what had happened to Rex.

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