FOR ALICE
A Short Story
Thomas Mays reached up with his gloved hand and wiped the mixture of salt water and sand from his goggles. He was close on the tail of his old friend and rival, Artie Walker, when Artie hit a slick spot in the sand and swerved into the surf. The resulting splash covered the open cockpit of his Hudson Super Six. As a result, Thomas had to slow and swerve to the right to avoid crashing into him. Two competitors passed them in their cars as a result. Artie’s Dusenberg was likely out of the race unless he could get it out of the water.
The 20-mile speed race was an Ormond Beach staple, and had been a fan favorite since its inception five years ago in 1919. According to rumors, the organizers were considering moving the race up to Daytona, so this might be the last time Thomas raced this particular stretch of beach. Ormond beach itself was about twenty five miles long, so this race was a straight shot down the coastline. On Thomas’s left, the Atlantic Ocean raced by. On his right, spectators found whatever locations they could to observe the spectacle. The beach itself was as wide as 500 feet, making it a perfect raceway.
Thomas looked down at the picture taped to his dashboard. She was out there, somewhere amongst the spectators with her mom, Mary. Alice was six, and the prize money from this race would help pay for the treatment she needed.
Artie’s misstep set Thomas back. Thomas placed spotters every five miles along the beach to give him key information he needed. He was coming up on the five mile marker, and he could see his man with a sign that said, “Eight”. He was in eighth position. There was work to do, but there was plenty of time to do it.
Thomas’s bright red Super Six, Reilly, was a good car. Yes, she had a name. Thomas named the car after his maternal grandmother — a spry and feisty woman that had always been there when he needed her. Thomas cared for the Hudson like it was a family member, pampering her to the point that Mary often called Reilly his mistress. He tuned the engine himself, boring out the cylinders to maximize top speed.
Thomas quickly downshifted, causing the engine to scream in protest, but she faithfully accelerated at his command. He looked down at the tachometer… just a little more… then shifted back into high gear. “Yes,” he thought. He was travelling at an astounding 89 MPH. Most of the racers out here today had a top speed of 80-85 MPH. Those new mods were definitely going to give him an advantage.
Thomas recently read that some of the new Buchattis could reach 100 MPH even on the beach, but none of these new racers had shown up here yet. He doubted Reilly could ever hit that speed, but today he was pushing her to her absolute limit. There were several of the older Buchatti Type 35s in this race. They could reach 90 MPH on pavement, but not in the sand. They were likely his biggest challengers — those and one or two custom Milton-Durants.
He quickly overcame the two cars that had flown by when Artie slowed him down, and he was closing in on one of those custom jobs — a deep blue Milton-Durant. It was the #18 car. He knew the driver of that car as well. Jackson Grady drove dirty. Nobody liked him, but he had a great car that was well maintained and engineered.
As he approached the rear of the Milton-Durant, Thomas decided to play it safe and pass on the high side, away from the water. He nudged Reilly to the right, but Jackson, seeing his move, cut him off. He backed off and tried again, but Jackson anticipated his move, and he was once again cut off. He may play dirty at times, but right now Jackson was just doing exactly what any good driver would do. Say what you wanted about the man, but you couldn’t deny that he was a great driver.
Thomas backed off one more time, but this time he feigned his move to the right. As soon as Jackson made his blocking move, he quickly braked, downshifted, and swerved left towards the surf. Reilly once again screamed in agony as he skirted the surf’s edge. It was a dangerous and bold move, but Reilly leaped forward like a war horse charging into battle. Jackson swerved back to the left in an attempt to block Thomas again, but he was too late. Thomas and Reilly were already alongside him and advancing. Thomas gave Jackson a quick salute as he pulled past into fourth place.
Thomas turned his attention forward. The three lead cars were all fast. It would be a grind to catch them before the end of the race, but he knew Reilly could do it. Suddenly, up ahead, he saw a puff of white smoke — a blown tire. In this case, it was the lead car. He watched helplessly as the front-runner lost control and began serving uncontrollably. This was the most dangerous moment in racing. Every driver feared it, because there was no way to predict where a car with a blown tire would go.
It happened so fast that Thomas did not even realize what happened. The lead car — a Buchatti 35 — careened first to the right, then to the left. The two cars in second and third place — a Hudson Super Six and a Buchatti 35 — each swerved — into each other. The lead Buchatti ended up in the surf. The crash between the Hudson and the other Buchatti resulted in the Hudson flipping end over end.
Thomas reacted instinctively, swerving quickly to the left, into the surf, to miss the crash. In the process, however, Reilly lost her grip in the wet sand and began to spin. Water went everywhere, especially into the open cockpit. The force of the water ripped the picture of Alice off the dashboard, and it raced past his head out toward the surf. He let go of the steering wheel with one hand, grasping at the picture, but he could not catch it. Alice’s picture was gone.
Reilly sat still in the shallow surf, steam rolling from under the hood from where the water stalled her engine. Thomas looked back over his shoulder at the wreck. He saw three drivers emerging from their vehicles. They were okay, but Thomas also watched as three other cars zoomed past them, with several others quickly approaching.
Thomas couldn’t lose this race. He needed the money. He hit the ignition switch. Reilly’s engine turned over but didn’t fire. He thought of the moment Alice was born — the joy on his face holding his baby girl for the first time. He hit the switch again. Reilly’s starter groaned, but her spark plugs still didn’t fire. He thought of the day he taught her to ride a bike. She fell and skinned her knee. Alice wanted to quit and go home, but he had told her not to give up. She didn’t give up and she conquered the bike. “Don’t give up!” he said as he hit the ignition again. Still nothing. Two more cars passed by. Thomas slammed his fist down on the dashboard. “Come on!” he screamed.
He sighed and took a breath. He then thought of the day the doctors told him and Mary that Alice had polio. The news devastated him, but his grandmother had been there to support them.
“Thomas,” she had said, “this is probably the most devastating news you could ever imagine receiving.” Nana Reilly was not wrong. “But,” she continued, “that child needs you to be strong. She needs you to be there during her darkest days. She needs you to be her fortress. She needs you to be her rock.”
Nana Reilly was the strongest woman he had ever known, and so was her namesake. Thomas gently caressed the steering wheel. “Come on, girl. You can do it. I didn’t mean to hit you, but I need you to shake it off and start.” He said a quick prayer and hit the ignition switch one more time.
Reilly’s ignition groaned, and then with a loud backfire, the engine roared back to life. “Yes!” he screamed as he threw the car into gear.
Wet sand filled the sky as Thomas spun the car around and back onto the course. He knew many cars had passed him, but he didn’t know how many. They were almost to the ten mile mark, and when he got there, he got the bad news. The sign held by his spotter said, “Eleven”. Eleventh place with half the race to go.
Ten miles. Ten cars. Reilly was strong and fast. She could do this. Thomas shifted into high gear and raced after the car directly in front of him. “One at a time,” he said out loud to no one.
The wind roared in his ears as he passed the first car and headed for the second. Soon, he passed that one as well. Unfortunately, the next grouping of cars were much farther down the beach. He squeezed the steering wheel and floored the accelerator. Slowly he began advancing on them.
As he watched, two of the cars swerved. At this distance he could not immediately not tell why, but it took only seconds for that mystery to be revealed. They were avoiding a wreck that happened in front of them. One car was overturned just inside surf. Another had crashed into the dunes to the right. The crowds gathered around the vehicle, attempting to help the driver. A third car was on its side right in the middle of the packed sand track. As Thomas raced by, he saw that the driver was attempting to right the fallen Dusenberg to get back into the race. Poor Artie, he had managed to make it back into the hunt only to face another disappointing setback. He wondered if Jackson had something to do with this. He was still up there somewhere — but not for long.
Thomas raced past his spotter holding a sign that said, “Six”. Five miles left. Five cars to pass. Thomas downshifted. Reilly protested, the pitch of her engine rising high as the tachometer crossed the red line.
“Hold on, girl.”
He shifted back into high gear. 92 MPH. Reilly had never gone this fast. She was an amazing car. As he passed the next car, he looked down at the temperature gauge. Reilly was starting to overheat. He needed to do something. He couldn’t slow down now, but if he didn’t cool the engine, she wouldn’t make it to the finish line. He looked to the surf on the left. Could he risk it? There were only a few miles left. He decided to take the chance and eased over into the edge of the surf. The water slowed him down slightly, but the splash cooled the engine just enough to lower the gauge below the red line.
With about two miles left, Thomas and Reilly had managed to maneuver into second place and was hot on the tail of the leading car—the blue #18 Milton-Durant.
“Jackson Grady,” said Thomas, sotto voce.
Jackson and his modified Milton-Durant had the advantage of position, and Reilly was feeling the strain of the race. She was riding dangerously close to the red line.
“Let’s go girl,” he said, stroking the dashboard. “We can’t let him have this race.”
Thomas eased up behind the Milton, noticing the landmarks along the edge of the beach. He only had one mile to the finish line.
Forty five seconds, give or take at this speed. That’s all the time he had to make his move, and Jackson would not make it easy for him. He weaved and dodged a few times until he managed to work his way up beside Jackson on the outside.
Jackson looked over at him. They were, at most, four feet from one another. If they so desired, they could probably reach out and shake hands. Thomas had no such desire.
Jackson downshifted, and his Milton screamed in pain. Despite its protests, it lurched forward about half a car length and was starting to pull away.
Thomas looked at the temperature gauge, which was right on the red line, then looked ahead at the finish line. Three hundred yards is all that stood between him and victory.
He downshifted. Reilly’s engine roared. The tachometer redlined. The temperature gauge began to ease above the red line, and a small stream of steam emerged from the radiator. Reilly was overheating, but he could feel the acceleration as she regained the lost ground.
With less than 100 yards left, he shifted back into high gear.
“This is for Alice, girl. Can you do it?”
He looked down at the speedometer, ignoring the steam coming from the radiator. 94 MPH. Oh how he loved this car!
He looked over at the finish line. It was approaching rapidly, and the crowds were jumping up and down cheering — but were they cheering for him — or Jackson?
With only a few feet to the finish line, he looked over at Jackson. As they passed the line, the Milton-Durant’s front end was six inches short of his own. He crossed the finish line first!
“YES!” he cheered as he let off the accelerator. When he did, though, a loud clunking sound began coming from Reilly’s engine. Smoke billowed from under the hood. Suddenly, the engine seized, Reilly lost power, and the car slowly rolled to a halt.
Thomas let out a deep breath of relief as the crowds rushed towards the two of them. He won the 1924 Ormond Beach 20-mile speed run… but it had cost him Reilly.
Ignoring the crowds he jumped out of the car and threw open the hood. The hot smoke burned his hand as the white clouds billowed into the sky. He jerked back in pain, but quickly returned to examine the damage.
“For Alice…” he whispered, “… and for Nana”.
Vowing to rebuild her, Thomas turned to face the crowd and celebrate their victory.
