Chapter 36: The Ones Who Cross the Line
Chapter 36: The Ones Who Cross the Line
Drag racing was often mistaken for a simple contest of power between muscular cars.
However, this race fought over a short, straight quarter-mile road was actually closer to a mathematician’s gamble.
How do you secure enough traction to transfer all that excessive power to the ground as efficiently as possible?
How much suspension damping is needed to control weight transfer?
At what point does the engine reach peak torque, and what gear ratio matches it?
Only when every one of those gears meshed without the slightest error could a racer taste the glory of victory.
“Whew… This is making me more nervous than I expected.”
“Not as nervous as I am. This is actually the first time I’ve asked my father to look over a car’s setup.”
Steven and I stood beside the trailer carrying the Rambler, parked in front of a familiar sign.
{Hutchins Vintage Auto Parts}
“If It Ain’t Ford, It Ain’t Here.”
As it turned out, Steven’s father, Frank Hutchins, had once been a highly accomplished racer who won western and central championships in the NHRA’s Super Stock category.
(Translator’s Note: NHRA Super Stock — The National Hot Rod Association, founded by Wally Parks in California on March 13, 1951. It was established to promote organized, regulated, and safer drag racing. A production-based drag-racing category containing highly modified sedans and vintage muscle cars. Vehicles are classified partly through factory shipping weight and NHRA-assigned horsepower and compete through an indexed handicap system.)
However, when Steven was born, he had given up his dream to earn a living for his family.
Perhaps influenced by his father, Steven also raced in the same NHRA category, though apparently his results were not as good as he had hoped.
Jingle—
The familiar doorbell rang.
Frank, whose hair had receded over half his head, strode out with a stern expression.
“You’re asking me to inspect a car for some back-alley drag race. I’m not idle enough to join in with your childish games.”
He immediately made his displeasure obvious.
His attitude was quite different from when I had met him as a customer.
“Dad….”
Steven shrank beneath his father’s severe voice like a puppy with its tail drooping.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hutchins.”
I greeted him as politely as possible.
“I know you’re busy, but could you spare a moment to look over the car’s setup? I’ve roughly finished everything, but I’m not sure whether I did it correctly.”
“Your name was Jason, wasn’t it? You worked on this car? And you say you’ve ‘roughly’ finished the setup?”
Frank glanced sideways at the Rambler on the trailer.
His eyes were filled with doubt.
“Yes. It has a stroker build with no turbo. Naturally aspirated, producing around three hundred twenty horsepower.”
“Hmph. Everyone makes it sound easy. Still, you chose an interesting car. A Ford Maverick would have been better. What are you racing against?”
“A 2009 Dodge Charger R/T. It has a supercharger setup.”
“A modern Charger. Powerful, but damn heavy. That’s the problem with every car they make these days. They think horsepower solves everything.”
The moment Frank said that, Steven’s face rapidly darkened.
He drove a powerful, heavy “modern” Mustang himself.
In reality, both the 2009 Charger and Steven’s 2005 Mustang were already almost twenty years old.
Frank Hutchins, however, classified every vehicle released after the turn of the millennium as a “modern car.”
“Drag racing is ultimately a battle against gravity. So, what’s the power-to-weight ratio of that AMC?”
“Three hundred twenty horsepower at twenty-two hundred pounds, so it comes out to approximately six and a half pounds per horsepower.”
“Ahem…. You must have worked hard stripping out the weight.”
Frank’s eyebrow twitched slightly.
“Yes. There’s practically nothing left inside except the driver’s seat. I even cut out every unnecessary bracket behind the dashboard.”
“Good. It appears you aren’t treating this as a joke. Then you naturally installed a high-stall torque converter. What stall speed did you choose?”
A high-stall torque converter allowed the engine to be held at a certain RPM while the vehicle remained stationary, enabling it to launch forward immediately at the start.
“Thirty-eight hundred RPM.”
“That’s rather aggressive. You might not have enough tire grip at launch, and the wheels could spin.”
“If the engagement point is too low, the Charger will beat us during the initial acceleration. I set the rear anti-squat fairly high, so the wheelspin shouldn’t be severe.”
Like a carefully choreographed fight scene in a martial-arts film, Frank and I exchanged one remark after another as our offensive and defensive arguments continued.
“What is your estimated quarter-mile elapsed time?”
“Between twelve-point-two seconds at worst and eleven-point-eight at best.”
“Hmm…. To make that possible, you’ll need to cross the finish line at a minimum of one hundred ten miles per hour. Can it do that?”
“In theory. I’m still debating whether to adjust the gear ratio and bring the finish-line speed up to one hundred twenty miles per hour.”
Frank stroked his chin and fell into thought.
Various calculations seemed to be running through his mind.
He’s completely different from Steven.
Despite how much they resembled each other physically.
“You seem to have a decent head on your shoulders, so I’ll give you a few pointers. When calculating your gear ratio, don’t set it too close to the redline. Leave a margin of at least three percent. Also, calculate the rear-tire diameter as larger than its actual measurement. Centrifugal force will cause the tires to expand at speed.”
Frank stepped toward me and offered his hand.
His expression had softened considerably from when he first emerged.
“Heh. Still, it’s difficult to believe this is your first attempt. To be honest, I’m a little impressed. Give it your best.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Frank firmly squeezed my hand, then turned toward his son standing beside us.
“You have an impressive friend. Take this opportunity to learn from him.”
“…Yes.”
Without adding another word, he turned his back and walked into the store.
Jingle—
“Haa….”
The clear doorbell rang as Steven’s head sank toward the ground.
The desert night was quiet.
Only the occasional hoot of an owl crossing the cooling ground disturbed the silence.
But deeper within the desert, near an abandoned runway, the tranquility disappeared completely and was replaced by the thunderous roars of engines.
“So you didn’t run away.”
Cyrus approached after recognizing us, wearing sunglasses shaped like an insect’s eyes.
“Handle it carefully. It’ll be my car soon.”
He sneered at us as we unloaded the Rambler from the trailer.
“……”
Jack glanced at Cyrus’s face but said nothing as he quietly turned the Rambler’s key.
Chreeee—
A high metallic whine filled the first few seconds.
Thump—thump, thump—thump-thump—
Then the irregular rhythm characteristic of an engine with a high-performance cam began pouring out.
The smile quickly disappeared from Cyrus’s face when he heard the Rambler’s rough pulse.
“…A high-lift cam? Looks like you put in quite a lot of wrench time.”
A large black hood bulged upward, while the rear sat slightly higher in a stance intended specifically for drag racing.
The fifteen-inch wheels were covered in beadlock bolts.
(Translator’s Note: Beadlock wheel — A wheel that mechanically clamps the tire bead in place. It is useful in drag racing because low-pressure tires can otherwise rotate on or separate from the wheel during a powerful launch.)
Wrapped around them were thick, doughnut-like drag slicks.
Even someone who knew nothing about drag-racing modifications could immediately tell that the Rambler was no ordinary car.
That was the result of four people working on it day and night for two weeks.
“Well… it still sounds like a six-cylinder.”
Cyrus soon snorted and violently pulled open the door of his Charger.
Then, as though stroking the neck of a sleeping beast, he lightly twisted the key in his hand.
Bang!
Rooooooar—!!
A tremendous thunderclap erupted from the car, as though the sky itself had split in two.
The sound carried the confidence and intimidation of a beast proclaiming that everything touched by its roar belonged to it.
“If you’re going to make a proper exhaust note, you need at least eight cylinders.”
Roar, roar, roar, roar—
Cyrus lowered the window and gave us a cold smile.
Naturally, it seemed he had also spent considerable effort upgrading his vehicle over the past two weeks.
It sounds like he added at least another fifty horsepower.
I could vividly feel the increase in power through the sound pressure pounding against my eardrums.
Jack, Cole, and Steven appeared to have reached the same conclusion.
All three of their faces had stiffened.
“Jack, don’t worry. I told you before. We’re going to win.”
I patted Jack’s shoulder, which looked especially tense today.
“Yeah. I know.”
He nodded while gripping the Rambler’s steering wheel tightly.
“Now, let’s get this over with. We wouldn’t want that heap of junk to die before the race even starts.”
Cyrus sneered as he drove ahead toward the racing road.
Huff, huff, huff—
Damn it. I’m shaking like hell.
At the starting line, Jack wiped the fog from his helmet visor and thought about how badly his hands were trembling.
In the right lane beside the Rambler, Cyrus casually flirted with his girlfriend.
Jack, by contrast, could already feel sweat running across the hands gripping the steering wheel.
He had always been like this.
Normally, he handled almost everything well and remained relaxed, but the moment he stepped onto a stage, tension seemed to constrict his throat.
Today, however, he had no intention of using nervousness as an excuse.
He had to win.
No—he would win.
This race did not involve his honor alone.
“Jack! You’ve got this!”
“Knock that arrogant Cyrus bastard down a peg!”
“Don’t forget. The stall is set at exactly thirty-eight hundred RPM. Release the button the moment you receive the starting signal. The acceleration may lift your foot when it launches, so press your left foot against the floor and force your body fully into the seat.”
Through the wireless earbud in his ear came the voices of Cole, Steven, and someone he still could not believe was standing there with them.
Jason.
Steven stood near the starting point, Cole at the halfway mark, and Jason at the finish line.
Click—
Jack pressed the small button attached to the gearshift knob with his thumb.
It controlled a device known as a transbrake.
(Translator’s Note: Transbrake — A drag-racing transmission device that temporarily engages forward and reverse functions simultaneously, holding an automatic-transmission car stationary while the engine is brought to launch RPM. Releasing the control allows an immediate launch.)
While the button was held down, the transmission engaged forward and reverse gears simultaneously, preventing the car from moving even as the engine revved.
Bap-bap-bap-bap-bap—
He pressed the accelerator until the RPM needle settled precisely at thirty-eight hundred.
He could feel the Rambler’s body twitching as though it might leap forward at any moment.
“Three, two, one…
Go!”
The instant the official standing between the two beasts gave the signal—
Click—
Jack released the button beneath his thumb.
At that moment, reverse gear disengaged instantly, and the Rambler violently snapped the leash restraining it.
Roooooar—
As the tires poured the engine’s power into the ground, Jack’s field of vision tilted slightly toward the sky.
A giant named gravitational acceleration immediately struck his chest with a massive fist.
“Ghk!”
His head snapped backward, and the back of his helmet slammed hard against the headrest.
The dizzying sensation of weightlessness from a roller coaster’s vertical drop and crushing gravitational pressure rushed over him simultaneously.
His hands trembled violently around the steering wheel.
This time, however, Jack did not hesitate.
He kept his gaze forward and refused to lift his foot from the pedal.
Vroooooom—
He reached the halfway point—approximately two hundred meters—in an instant.
“Yeah! You just passed halfway!”
Cole’s shouting face flashed past on the side of the road like an afterimage.
It lasted only an instant, but seeing his longtime friend brought a sense of reassurance to Jack’s heart.
I can do this.
That reassurance, however, was immediately swallowed by fear.
Roooooar—!
The thunderous roar of Cyrus’s Charger, which had briefly fallen behind, began drilling into his right eardrum again.
It carried the oppressive presence of an enormous beast lunging for the back of his neck.
Jack’s eyes wavered.
Instinctively, his gaze shifted toward the right-side mirror.
But at that very instant, a voice so cold and controlled that it sent a chill through him struck his ear.
“Jack! Don’t look behind you. Keep your eyes fixed forward.”
It was Jason.
“Trust the car we built. The pedal won’t break, so push harder.”
It was such an obvious truth that Jack almost laughed.
Through his helmet visor, he could faintly see Jason’s silhouette standing at the finish line.
“Raaaaagh!”
Jack drove his foot down as though he intended to punch through the accelerator pedal already pressed against the floor.
Roooooar—
The Charger’s vicious roar, now almost directly beside him, battered his eardrums.
His heart felt ready to burst from the tension.
Still, he did not look at the mirror.
Instead, he stared only at Jason standing at the finish line.
Clunk—
The transmission shifted into third and final gear.
At the same time, the needle on the tachometer surged upward like it had gone mad.
Five thousand five hundred….
Six thousand….
Six thousand five hundred….
Finally, the needle reached the redline at six thousand eight hundred RPM.
There was nowhere left to go.
The engine shrieked metallically as though it might explode at any moment, while screams like tearing metal erupted from every part of the seventy-year-old Rambler’s body.
Jack’s eyes met Jason’s for only one-tenth of a second.
There was no time to determine whether Jason’s expression showed elation or despair.
And at that moment—
Vroooom—
The Rambler crossed the finish line.