The Big Cat Nap

men. The semipros used Central Virginia Hot Rod Track on Saturdays and Sundays. Those big dogs knew how to use the bleach box—also called a burnout pit—to heat their tires before reaching the staging area. Warm tires held the track better. But even the fellows with lighter wallets knew how to get their front tires just right. The staging lights were lit, next the big ambers, then green, and
vroom
. Sometimes a driver would miscue and the front end of his car would stand up: sure way to lose a race. The top fuel dragsters could do a quarter mile in 4.9 seconds at close to 200 mph. But even at the lower level, the driver’s body was subjected to close to 4.9 g-force pressure. It was a wild high.
    True to her word, BoomBoom accompanied Harry. Alicia was in Richmond for a fund-raiser for the Virginia Historical Society andwas only too happy to miss the noise and smell. Fair accompanied Alicia, as he, too, adored history and would read anything about Virginia history. So it worked out perfectly for both couples, each member having an escort, each member doing what he or she truly wanted to do.
    The two women perched high on the bleachers.
    Conventionally gorgeous, BoomBoom drew many an appreciative stare. But the men then looked at Harry, a far more natural-looking woman. Two good-looking women new to the viewing stands lifted spirits. The two high school classmates wore short-sleeved thin blouses, Bermuda shorts with espadrilles. BoomBoom fanned herself with an old-fashioned palm-frond fan, the kind that used to be given out in church during the summers.
    “What do you think a paint job like that costs?” Harry indicated a flaming orange—a kind of burnt orange—on a Camaro with the black numeral 15 on each side.
    “Metallic painting costs more, and that’s an unusual color.” BoomBoom squinted. “I guess five thousand for starters. I mean, to get that depth of color would take countless applications, and the paint would need to be really thin.”
    “Bet you’re right. God, when you think of the money spent on these cars, it’s pretty overwhelming.”
    “Yes, it is, but the people I worry about are the ones who don’t have a passion. The ones who always worry about the money and how everything has to make sense.”
    “Are you criticizing me?”
    “No. You worry about money too much, but you don’t lack passion. You love your horses, the farm. I’d have to say you even love your crepe myrtles.” BoomBoom laughed.
    Before Harry could reply, the air shattered as a lower-level drag racer thundered down the strip. Bounding up the bleachers came a perspiring Victor Gatzembizi with Latigo Bly.
    “Harry, my model. This little track has never seen such pulchritude.” Victor threw out his arms, then told BoomBoom and Latigo about Harry modeling his wife’s fortieth-birthday present.
    Latigo, less effusive, simply asked after Victor’s tale of the fabulous necklace, “What brings you ladies over the mountain?”
    “We live so close, we finally decided to see the action.” Harry smiled as Victor plopped down next to her, Latigo next to BoomBoom.
    “Some good mechanics here. More importantly, some good drivers.” Victor swatted at a mosquito. “My whole crew is down there, and they’re good drivers, if I do say so myself.”
    Latigo nodded. “Some of his boys might have made a career in racing, but it’s so tough. A person has to have the personality for it; it’s not just skill.”
    “What do you mean exactly?” Harry’s curiosity, never far from the surface, was piqued.
    Latigo, who had indulged in a bit of discreet plastic surgery, crossed his arms over his pecs. “A man—well, a woman, too—has to really want to win. But more than that, they must hate to lose. In 1966, Shirley Shahan was the first woman to win a national title, and she wanted to win every bit as much as the guys.”
    “Really?” BoomBoom turned to fully face him. The effect was immediate: He straightened up and smiled broadly.
    Victor chimed in. “He’s right. Those pros, traveling from race to race, would rather win than eat. There’s a high with it. Has to be. I don’t have it. Raced some, truly enjoyed it, but I didn’t care if I was the center of attention.”
    “Performer personality,” Latigo said with conviction. “Now, there are a few drivers on the NASCAR circuit who are introverted, but most are hams. Love the cameras, love the interviews. Same with the dragsters.”
    “What about the women?” Harry