Racing in the Rain (15 page)

Chapter Forty-Five

A
yrton Senna did not have to die.

This came to me in a flash as I lay, whimpering in pain, in the backseat of Denny's car on the way to the animal hospital that night. It came to me: on the Grand Prix circuit in the town of Imola, Senna did not have to die. He could have walked away.

Saturday, the day before the race, Senna's friend Rubens Barrichello was seriously injured in an accident. Another driver, Roland Ratzenberger, was killed during a practice session. Senna was very upset about the safety conditions of the track.

People say that he was so ambivalent about that race, the San Marino Grand Prix, that he thought seriously of retiring as a driver on Sunday morning. He almost quit. He almost walked away.

But he did not walk away. He raced, that fateful first day of May in 1994. And when his car failed to turn in at the fabled Tamburello corner, his car left the track at nearly one hundred ninety miles per hour and struck a concrete barrier; he was killed instantly by a piece of metal that penetrated his helmet.

Or he died in the helicopter on the way to the hospital.

Or he died on the track, after they had pulled him out of the wreckage.

Mysterious is Ayrton Senna, in death as well as in life.

To this day, there is still great controversy over his death. The first man to reach Senna, Sidney Watkins, said: “We lifted him from the cockpit and laid him on the ground. As we did, he sighed and, although I am totally agnostic, I felt his soul departed at that moment.”

What is the real truth regarding the death of Ayrton Senna, who was only thirty-four years old? I know the truth, and I will tell you now:

He was admired, loved, cheered, honored, respected. In life as well as in death. A great man. He died that day because his body had served its purpose. His soul had done what it came to do. And I knew, as Denny sped me toward the doctor, that if I had already accomplished what I set out to accomplish here on earth, I would have been killed instantly by that car.

But I was not killed. Because I was not finished. I still had work to do.

Chapter Forty-Six

S
eparate entrances for cats and dogs. That's what I remember most. I also remember the doctor painfully manipulating my hips. Then he gave me a shot and I was very much asleep.

When I awoke, I was still groggy, but no longer in pain. I heard snippets of conversation. Terms like “chronic arthritis,” and “fracture of the pelvic bone.” Others like “replacement surgery,” and “salvage operation,” “knitting,” and “pain threshold,” And my favorite, “old.”

Denny carried me to the lobby and laid me down on the brown carpeting, which was somehow comforting in the dim room. The assistant spoke to him and said more things that were confusing to me due to my drugged state. “X-ray.” “Sedative.” “Examination and diagnosis.” “Injection.” “Pain medications.” “Nighttime emergency fee.” And, of course, “Eight hundred and twelve dollars.”

Denny handed the assistant a credit card. He kneeled down and stroked my head. “You'll be all right, Zo,” he said. “You cracked your pelvis, but it will heal. You'll just take it easy for a while, and then you'll be good as new.”

“Mr. Swift?” Denny stood and returned to the counter. “Your card has been declined.”

Denny stiffened. “That's not possible.”

“Do you have another card?”

“Here.” Denny handed him another credit card. They both watched the blue machine that took the cards, and a few moments later, the assistant shook his head.

“You've exceeded your limit.”

Denny frowned and took out another card. “Here's my ATM card. It will work.”

They waited again. Same result.

“That's not right,” Denny said. I could hear his breath quicken, his heart beat faster. “I just deposited my paycheck. Maybe it hasn't cleared yet.”

The doctor appeared from the back.

“A problem?” he asked.

“Look, I have three hundred dollars from when I deposited my check, I took some of it out in cash. Here.”

Denny fanned bills in front of the doctor.

“They must be holding the rest of the check or something, waiting for it to clear,” Denny said, his voice sounding panicky. “I know I have money in that account. Or I can transfer some into it tomorrow morning from my savings.”

“Relax, Denny,” the doctor said. “I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding.”

He said to the assistant, “Write Mr. Swift a receipt for the three hundred, and leave a note for Susan to run the card in the morning for the balance.”

The assistant reached out and took Denny's cash. Denny watched closely as the young man wrote up the receipt.

“Could I keep twenty of it?” Denny asked hesitantly. I could see his lip quivering. He was exhausted and shaken and embarrassed. “I need to put some gas in my car.”

The assistant looked to the doctor, who lowered his eyes and nodded silently and turned away, calling good night over his shoulder. The assistant handed Denny a twenty-dollar bill and a receipt, and Denny carried me to the car.

When we got home and Denny placed me on my bed, he sat in the dark room, lit only by the streetlamps outside, and he held his head in his hands for a long time.

“I can't keep going,” he said to me. “They won. Do you see? I can't even afford to take care of you. I can't even afford gas for my car. I've got nothing left, Enzo. There's nothing left.”

Oh, how I wished I could speak. How I wished for thumbs. I could have grabbed his shirt collar. I could have pulled him close to me and I could have said to him, “This is just a crisis. A flash! You are the one who taught me to never give up. You taught me that new possibilities emerge for those who are prepared, for those who are ready. You have to believe!” But I couldn't say that. I could only look at him.

“I tried,” he said. “You are my witness. I tried.”

If I could have stood on my hind legs. If I could have raised my hands and held him. If I could have spoken to him. But he could not hear me. Because I am what I am. I am a dog.

And so he returned his head to his hands and he sat. I provided nothing. He was alone.

Chapter Forty-Seven

D
ays later. A week. Two. I don't know. After Denny's crisis, time meant little to me; he looked sickly, he had no energy, no life force, and so neither did I. At a point when my hips still bothered me, we went to visit Mike and Tony. We sat in their kitchen, Denny with a cup of tea and a manila folder before him. Tony wasn't present. Mike paced nervously.

“It's the right decision, Den,” Mike said. “I totally support you. Mr. Lawrence got you everything you asked for: the same visitation schedule but with two weeks in the summer and one week over Christmas break, and the February school break; you don't have to pay support anymore; they'll put her in a private school on Mercer Island and they'll pay for her college education.”

Denny nodded.

“And they'll withdraw the charge,” Mike said.

Denny stared dully at the folder on the table.

“Denny,” Mike said seriously, “you're a smart guy. One of the smartest guys I've ever met. Let me tell you, this is a smart decision. You know that, right?”

Denny looked confused for a moment, scanned the tabletop, checked his own hands.

“I need a pen,” he said.

Mike reached behind him to the telephone table and picked up a pen. He handed it to Denny.

Denny hesitated, his hand poised over the documents in the folder. He looked up at Mike.

“I feel like they've sliced open my guts, Mike. Like they've sliced me open and cut out my intestines. For the rest of my life I'll have to think about how they cut me open and gutted me and I just lay there with a dead smile on my face and said, ‘Well, at least I'm not broke.'”

Mike seemed at a loss. “It's rough,” he said.

“Yeah,” Denny agreed. “It's rough. Nice pen.”

Denny held up the pen. It was one of those souvenir pens with the sliding thing in the plastic top with the liquid.

“Woodland Park Zoo,” Mike said.

I looked closer. The top of the pen. A little plastic savannah. The sliding thing? A zebra. When Denny tipped the pen, the zebra slid across the plastic savannah. The zebra is everywhere.

I suddenly realized. The zebra. It is not something outside of us. The zebra is something inside of us. Our fears. Our own self-destructive nature. The zebra is the worst part of us when we are face-to-face with our worst times. The demon is us!

Denny brought the tip of the pen to the paper and I could see the zebra sliding forward, inching toward the signature line. Then I knew it wasn't Denny who was signing. It was the zebra! Denny would never give up his daughter for a few weeks of summer vacation and to be free from child support payments!

I was an old dog. Recently hit by a car. And yet I mustered what I could, and the pain medication Denny had given me earlier helped with the rest. I pushed up onto his lap with my paws. I reached out with my teeth. And the next thing I knew, I was standing at the kitchen door with the papers in my mouth and both Mike and Denny staring at me, completely stunned.

“Enzo!” Denny commanded. “Drop it!”

I refused.

“Enzo! Drop!” he yelled.

“Come here, boy!” Mike said.

I looked over at him; he was holding a banana. Which was totally unfair. He knew how much I loved bananas. But still, I refused.

“Enzo, get the heck over here!” Denny shouted, and he lunged at me.

I slipped away.

It was a low-speed chase, to be sure, my mobility being restricted as it was. But it was a chase nonetheless. One in which I dodged and slid and evaded the hands that grasped for my collar. I held them off.

I still had the papers, even when they cornered me in the living room. Even when they were about to catch me and wrest the papers from my jaws, I had a chance. I was trapped, I know. But Denny taught me that the race isn't over until the checkered flag flies. I looked around and noticed that one of the windows was open. It wasn't open much, and there was a screen on it, but it was open, and that was enough.

Despite all of my pain, I lunged. With all of my might, I dove. I cleared the opening; I crashed into that screen and through it. And suddenly I was on the porch. I scurried into the backyard. Mike and Denny flew out the back door, panting, and yet not pursuing. Instead, they seemed somewhat impressed by my feat.

“He dove,” Mike said, breathless.

“Out the window,” Denny finished for him.

Yes, I did. I dove.

“If we had a videotape of that, we could win ten thousand dollars on
America's Funniest Home Videos
,” Mike said.

“Give me the papers, Enzo,” Denny said.

I shook them vigorously in my mouth. Mike laughed at my refusal.

“It's not funny,” Denny admonished.

“It's kind of funny,” Mike replied in his defense.

“Give me the papers,” Denny repeated.

I dropped the papers before me and pawed at them. I dug at them. I tried to bury them.

Again, Mike laughed.

Denny, however, was very angry; he glared at me.

“Enzo,” he said, “I'm warning you.”

What could I do? Had I not made myself clear? Had I not communicated my message? What else was there for me to do?

One thing only. I lifted my hind leg and I peed on the papers. Gestures are all that I have.

When they saw what I had done, they couldn't help themselves; they laughed. Denny and Mike. They laughed so hard. Denny laughed harder than I'd seen him laugh in years. Their faces turned red. They could barely breathe. They fell to their knees and laughed until they could laugh no more.

“Okay, Enzo,” Denny said. “It's okay.”

I went to him then, leaving the soaked papers on the grass.

“Call Lawrence,” Mike said to Denny. “He'll print them again and you can sign them.”

Denny stood.

“No,” he said, “I'm with Enzo. I piss on their settlement, too. I don't care how smart it is for me to sign it. I didn't do anything wrong, and I'm not giving up. I'm never giving up.”

“They're going to be mad,” Mike said with a sigh.

“Screw them,” Denny said. “I'm going to win this thing or I'm going to run out of fuel on the last lap. But I'm not going to quit. I promised Zoë. I'm not going to quit.”

When we got home, Denny gave me a bath and toweled me off. Afterward, he turned on the TV in the living room.

“What's your favorite?” he asked, looking at the shelf of videotapes he kept, all the races we loved to watch together. “Ah, here's one you like.”

He started the tape. Ayrton Senna driving the Grand Prix of Monaco in 1984, slicing through the rain. Senna would have won that race, had they not stopped it because of the conditions; when it rained, it never rained on Senna.

We watched the race together without pause, side by side, Denny and me.

Chapter Forty-Eight

T
he summer of my tenth birthday came along and there was a sense of balance to our lives, though none of completeness. We still spent alternate weekends with Zoë. She had grown so tall recently, and never let a moment pass without questioning an assumption, challenging a theory, or offering an insight that made Denny smile with pride.

My hips had healed poorly from my accident, but I was determined not to cost Denny any more money. I pushed through the pain, which at times prevented me from sleeping through the nights. I tried my best to keep up with the pace of life; my mobility was severely limited and I couldn't gallop or canter, but I could still trot fairly well.

Money was still a constant struggle for us, since Denny had to give the Evil Twins a portion of his paycheck. Fortunately, Denny's bosses were generous in allowing him to change his schedule frequently so he could teach driving on certain days at Pacific Raceways. This was an easy way for Denny to make more money to pay for his defense.

Sometimes, on his driving school days, Denny would take me with him to the track. While I was never allowed to ride with him, I did enjoy sitting in the stands and watching him teach. I became known as a bit of a track dog, and I especially liked trotting through the paddock, looking at the latest fashions in cars. From the nimble Lotus to the classic Porsche to the more flamboyant Lamborghini, there was always something good to see.

On a hot day at the end of July, while they were all out on the course, I watched as a beautiful red Ferrari F430 drove through the paddock and up to the school headquarters. A small, older man climbed out, and the owner of the school, Don Kitch, came to meet him. They embraced and spoke for several minutes.

The man strolled to the bleachers to get a view of the track, and Don radioed to his corner workers to end the session and bring in the students for lunch break. As the drivers climbed out of their vehicles, Don called for Denny, who approached, as did I, curious about what was going on.

“I need a favor,” Don said to Denny.

And suddenly the small man with the Ferrari was with us.

“You remember Luca Pantoni, don't you?” Don asked. “We came to dinner at your place a couple of years ago.”

“Of course,” Denny said, shaking Luca's hand.

“Your wife cooked a delightful dinner,” Luca said. “I remember it still. Please accept my sincere and heartfelt condolences.”

When I heard him speak with his Italian accent, I recognized him immediately. The man from Ferrari.

“Thank you,” Denny said quietly.

“Luca would like you to show him our track,” Don said.

“No problem,” Denny said, pulling on his helmet and walking to the passenger side of the exquisite automobile.

“Mr. Swift,” Luca called out. “Perhaps you would do me the favor of allowing me to be the passenger so that I may see more.”

Surprised, Denny looked at Don. “You want me to drive
this
car?” he asked. After all, the F430 is priced at nearly a quarter of a million dollars.

“I accept full liability,” Luca said.

“I'd be pleased to,” Denny said, and he climbed into the cockpit.

It was an extremely beautiful car, and it was outfitted not for street use, but for the track. It had ceramic brake rotors, one-piece racing seats, and harnesses and F1-style paddle shifters. The two men strapped in, and Denny pressed the electronic start button, and the car fired to life.

Ah, what a sound. The whine of the fantastic engine layered over the throaty rumble of the massive exhaust. Denny flicked the paddle shifter, and they cruised slowly through the paddock toward the track entrance.

I followed Don into the school classroom, where the students were eating lunch.

“If you drivers want to see something special,” Don said, “grab your sandwiches and come out to the bleachers. There's a lunch session going on.”

The Ferrari was the only car on the track, as the track was usually closed during the lunch hour. But this was a special occasion.

“What's going on?” one of the other instructors asked Don.

“Denny's got an audition,” Don replied mysteriously. We all went out to the bleachers in time to see Denny come around turn 9 and streak down the straight.

“I figure it will take him three laps to learn the sequential shifter,” Don said.

Sure enough, Denny started slowly, like he had driven with me back at Thunderhill. Oh, how I wished I could have traded places with Luca, that lucky dog! To be copilot to Denny in an F430 must be an amazing experience.

He was driving easy, but as he came around for the third time, there was a noticeable change to the car. It was no longer a car, it was a red blur. It no longer whined, it screamed as it shot down the straightaway. It was so fast that the students laughed at each other as if someone had just told a dirty joke. Denny was laying down a hot lap.

A minute later, the Ferrari popped out of the cluster of trees at turn 7, cresting the rise until its suspension was totally extended. Then with a
pock-pock-pock
sound we heard the electronic clutch quickly downshift from sixth to third. We saw the ceramic brake rotors glow red between the spokes of the magnesium wheels. Then we heard the throttle open full and watched the car slam through the sweeping turn 8 as if it were a rocket sled, as if it were on rails. The Ferrari's hot rubber racing tires grabbed the greasy pavement like Velcro, and then—
pock!
—the car was shifting up and—
pock!
—blasting past us no more than two inches from the concrete barrier. The Doppler effect of the passing car converted its snarl into an angry growl, and off it rocketed—
pock!
—shifting again and it was gone.

“Holy cow!” a student said.

I looked back at them, and their mouths were agape. We all were silent, and we could hear that sound—
pock, pock
—as Denny set himself up for turn 5A on the back side of the track, which we couldn't see but which we could imagine, and again Denny careened past us at a million miles an hour.

“How close to the edge is he?” someone asked aloud.

Don smiled and shook his head. “He's way past the edge,” he said. “I'm sure Luca told him to show him what he could do, and that's what he's doing.” Then he turned to the group and shouted, “Don't you ever drive like that! Denny is a professional race car driver and that's not his car! He doesn't have to pay for it if he breaks it!”

Lap after lap, around they went until we were dizzy and exhausted from watching them. And then the car slowed considerably—a cool-down lap—and pulled off into the paddock.

The entire class gathered around as Denny and Luca emerged from the burning hot vehicle. The students were abuzz; they touched the scalding glass window that shielded the magnificent engine and exclaimed at the spectacular drive.

“Everyone into the classroom!” Don barked. “We'll go over corner notes from your morning sessions.”

As they headed off, Don clasped Denny's shoulder firmly.

“What was it like?”

“It was incredible,” Denny said.

“Good for you. You deserve it.”

Don went off to teach his class; Luca approached and extended his hand. In it was a business card.

“I would like you to work for me,” Luca said with his thick accent.

I sat next to Denny, who reached down and scratched my ear out of habit.

“I appreciate that,” Denny said. “But I don't think I'd make a very good car salesman.”

“Neither do I,” Luca said.

“But you're with Ferrari,” replied Denny.

“Yes. I work in Maranello, at Ferrari headquarters. We have a wonderful track there.”

“I see,” Denny said. “So you'd like me to work . . . where?”

“At the track,” replied Luca. “There is some need, as often our clients would like track instruction in their new cars.”

“Instructing?”asked Denny.

“There is some need,” Luca replied. “But mostly, you would be testing the vehicles.”

Denny's eyes got extremely large and he sucked in a huge breath of air, as did I. Was this guy saying what we thought he was saying?

“In Italy,” Denny said.

“Yes,” said Luca. “You would be provided with an apartment for you and your daughter. And of course, a company car—a Fiat—as part of your compensation package.”

“To live in Italy,” Denny said. “And test-drive Ferraris.”

“Sí.”

Denny rolled his head around. He turned around in a circle, looked down at me, laughed.

“Why me?” Denny asked. “There are a thousand guys who can drive this car.”

“Don Kitch tells me you are an exceptional driver in the wet weather,” Luca replied.

“I am. But that can't be the reason.”

“No,” Luca said. “You are correct.” He stared at Denny, his clear blue eyes smiling. “But I would prefer to tell you more about those reasons when you join me in Maranello, and I can invite you to my house for dinner.”

Denny nodded and chewed his lip. He tapped Luca's business card against his thumbnail. “I appreciate your generous offer,” he said. “But I'm afraid certain things prevent me from leaving this country—or even this state—at the moment. So I have to decline.”

“I know about your troubles,” Luca said. “That is why I am here.”

Denny looked up, surprised.

“I will keep the position available for you until your situation is resolved and you can make your decision free from the burden of circumstance. My telephone number is on my card.”

Luca smiled and shook Denny's hand again. He slipped into the Ferrari.

“I wish you would tell me why,” Denny said.

Luca held up his finger. “Dinner, at my home. You will understand.”

He drove away.

Denny shook his head in bewilderment as the high-performance driving school students emerged from the classroom and headed for their cars. Don appeared.

“Well?” he asked.

“I don't understand,” Denny said.

“He's taken an interest in your career since he first met you,” Don said. “Whenever we talk, he asks how you're doing.”

“Why does he care so much?” Denny asked.

“He wants to tell you himself,” replied Don. “All I can say is that he respects how you're fighting for your daughter.”

Denny thought for a moment. “But what if I don't win?” he asked.

“There is no dishonor in losing the race,” Don said. “There is only dishonor in not racing because you are afraid to lose.” He paused. “Now get the heck out on the track! That's where you belong!”