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This is a story looking for a home. First, “Corner Two- Angela’s Revenge” debuted in Loving Wives. Then I accidently posted follow-up “Corner Two- No Place to Play” in Erotic Couplings (of which there is little). You might enjoy those two full stories, but this third one begins with a thumbnail sketch to help bring you up to speed. Speaking of which, Greg Carpenter has two loves, motor racing and Angela.
Angie Makes the Call
Corner Two is dangerous, no place to play. In the last couple of years big things had happened to me there, some good and some bad. This one was awful!
Two years back, I was watching the season-opening regional road-racing event at the corner when I saw Angela for the first time. She looked gorgeous in tight leather and denim, drawing every male eye on the hill as she obediently tagged along behind her uncaring husband. Hours later, Angie and I were wrapped together on her penthouse sofa, the first of many intensely satisfying trysts with this fine young woman.
Half a year later, she’d left her abusive man and we were a couple. At the last race of the season, we stood near Rocco along the fence at Corner Two. Angie seethed as she heaped scorn upon him, berating her husband for his selfishness during their failed ten-year marriage. I saw a side of my lover that I hoped wouldn’t be turned on me some day. She can be a very intense woman!
Today I felt that blistering anger directed at me, but as relief, not invective. I had taken up racing and during a sudden cloudburst, I’d crashed our shiny new Penske Camaro replica Trans-Am machine hard into the tire wall at that tricky bend. The accident left me unscathed but with a battered ego and race car. Angie rushed to the scene as I jumped from the wreck.
“Are you alright? Oh my god, Greg, are you hurt!”
“I’m fine! I’m fine! But the car….”
“To Hell with the goddam car!” my passionate lover blasted, but I understood that she was far more concerned about my survival than the costly crash.
“That’s it. We’re done for today. Maybe forever? This bloody mess will cost plenty to fix,” I lamented loudly.
“Damn it, Greg! Doesn’t matter. You’re OK!” she yelled, then clambered down the metre-high concrete wall and flew into my arms.
It did matter, but not quite so much now.
“We’ll get it fixed. Maybe in time for the October race. You’ll see,” she assured me as the entire crowd at Corner Two craned their necks to watch the tender scene unfolding beside our smashed Camaro. I guess little moments like this are not a common sight during a race.
It didn’t take long for a flatbed truck to arrive on the scene. The driver lowered the long ramp, then attached a heavy chain to the car frame. Sharp grinding sounds issued from the front end of the Camaro as the powerful winch slowly dragged our resisting knock-kneed vehicle up the steel slope. He locked it in place, then brought the ramp back beneath the truck.
Angie and I piled in beside the heavy, black-bearded driver. It was my first face-to-face meeting with the guy everybody nicknamed ‘Grizzly Adams’, a long-time track worker. His old shirt was sweat-stained, and he reeked for need of a hot shower. Angie was tight against him in the crowded cab, and I could see her nose wrinkle up as his strong aroma engulfed our crowded space.
“Hell of an accident, eh!” he growled. “Seen worse. Cars on top of the tires. Turned over. Guys half dead! Fuck of a place to crash! Real deadly, Corner Two.”
“I guess that’s why people like to watch here,” Angie replied, and when he turned to give her a big gap-toothed grin, his pungent breath took ours away.
“Yeah. They like crashes- the sick bastards. Yours ain’t so bad. Seen a lot worse. Fires. Blood and guts. Not my favourite place, scrapin’ up what’s left after along the wall. No, you’re OK. Could’ve been a lot fuckin’ worse!” Grizzly reassured us for the third time.
The driver’s crude description wasn’t making me feel much better, but Angie’s hand wrapped tightly around my leather glove did help. They were both right. I wasn’t hurt and the car wasn’t burned down to a smoldering hulk. Maybe there would be another day? It was just a matter of how soon the Camaro could be repaired- and how much it would cost.
Back in the pits, our group looked like drowned rats from the sudden deluge that caused the accident. We gathered around, examining the damage. The steering linkage was broken and probably more front end pieces. The right front wheel was bent and both tires on that side blown out. The length of the passenger side bodywork was crumpled, and the hood arched up. It was a mess
Marty and my engine-builder Sam both shook their heads in dismay. But Angie was more upbeat, trying hard to revive our sagging spirits.
“Let’s get it onto the trailer and go home. You can take a better look at it inside the garage behind Rod’s building.”
Roderick Grantham was my boss, owner of Grantham Graphics, a minor sponsor of our car. He lusted after Angie, and when she turned on the charm, he had agreed Ankara bayan escort to pay our race weekend entry fees and buy team gear, in addition to letting us use part of his spacious, well lit storage building. In exchange, Angie posed for promotional photos for Rod’s company.
I carefully backed the Camaro onto our open trailer, dragging its forlorn, broken front end screeching across the ramp. Our sodden gear was tossed inside and by mid-afternoon we were on our way home. The traffic along the expressway was already building as families streamed back from a weekend away. They gawked and pointed at our battered machine, pulled behind Sam’s truck.
“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get through this and move on, with or without the car. Greg, you weren’t hurt, the only thing that really matters to me,” she repeated softly for at least the fifth time.
It had been a terrible day at Corner Two. The crash had scared me, and I kept replaying it over in my mind. Could I have done anything differently? Should I have come in for rain tires when the skies looked ominous before the deluge? Would I be able to face that corner again or had I lost my nerve? Was this whole racing adventure just a foolish mid-life crisis on my part?
My name is Greg Carpenter. I write for Literotica as 1fastguy, my alter ego, but in real life I’m a tall and fit 57-year-old graphic designer living in Canada. My wife and I drifted apart as our son Marty grew older, until we mutually agreed to divorce about a dozen years ago.
When I met Angie two years back, I lived alone, working out at the gym a lot to stave off old age. My friends and I travelled to watch racing events across eastern North America in my old camper [caravan if you’re British]. Life was incomplete, but I hate the bar scene and shouted pickup lines.
Angela Carrier breathed new life into my empty routines. She’s a strikingly beautiful woman, tall and slender, way out of my league in the looks department. Angie was a fading fashion model, queen of the runway in her twenties, but now, her mid-thirties meant catalogue modelling as somebody’s mother or aunt. Her husband Rocco managed her career and had taken more interest in his younger clients, neglecting, and sometimes mistreating his wife.
Neither of us felt content or satisfied, when Fate intervened at Corner Two. Now she was divorced from Rocco, and we were together in my rented apartment a few hours from her former home. The court awarded Angie half of the marital assets, leaving her with several beloved contemporary paintings and a nice pile of cash. She wanted me to go racing, so chose to spend some of it that way.
Meanwhile, Angie was right about the car. We were back for the last race weekend on the regional schedule. It was a scramble to put it all back together in a month, but with very late hours in Rod’s storage building, and some unexpected help from my adult son Marty, the paint shop had it ready just in time.
We were entered for the Autumn Colours Weekend with high hopes and empty wallets. All the work we had to send out to shops cost several thousand dollars, including new parts and bodywork, paint, realignment and so on! The only way that we could make such a commitment to more racing came through my boss- and his attraction to Angela.
“I’m sure we could persuade Rod to invest more into our racing team, Greg,” she stated flatly a few days after we had hauled the wreck back from the track.
“Yeah, you could probably talk him into just about anything, depending on what you wore that day,” I commented sarcastically.
“Right… I was thinking about that….”
“OK, tell me. You’re working on an idea. I can see it on your pretty face.”
“Well, you know how Rod is so distracted by me, right? I think he needs to see more.”
“What? Like in clothes you modelled on that tropical shoot last winter? He’d like that but….”
“No, I mean more of me connected to his business. He did mention promotion at industry trade shows. Probably working a booth or something, handing out information and chatting up customers.”
“He did, but nothing firm on that. You want us to talk to him about it?” I asked.
“Yes, get him committed. And some other ideas too. Like seeing me in his advertising material, in team gear of course, but maybe with tight shorts and heels. He might want to have a pin-up type calendar?”
“Sexist, don’t you think, Angie? I won’t have you doing that just to get me racing.”
“I’m only tossing out ideas. He’d like to see ‘Grantham Graphics’ displayed prominently on the car. Maybe the entire hood or the front fenders. Then there are those ‘hero cards’ that some teams pass out at their pits. Full colour, with the car on one side, the driver, crew, and sponsors on the back. This would be good promotion at the track and trade shows.”
“Good ideas. Now how would all of this get us money to fix the car for next month?”
“We could convince him that this makes business sense if he paid some up front. He could expense it for this Escort bayan Ankara tax year. The car could be lettered when it’s repainted.”
“Great. I’ll set something up for this week and you’ll seal the deal.”
“No, Greg. That’s your job. I’ll be there as window dressing to back you up. It worked last time when Rod agreed to pay your entry fees and buy shirts and hats. This will just take it to a higher level.”
Two days later, I stepped in for another appointment with Rod, accompanied by Angie. It was a cool day, so she wore a long coat, but strangely, no stockings. She also wore a silly grin, one that said, “I’ve got a secret.” She soon revealed it- and herself. Once we were inside Rod’s office, off came the coat, leaving her clad in the Grantham team T-shirt, and tight little blue shorts. She quickly put on her team hat and big heels.
“Do you like the look, Rod?” Angie cooed as she struck a confident fashion pose in front of his desk. “I think it would really help promote your business. I’d like to get you more involved in Team Grantham.”
“Well, I know how I’d like to be more involved but that’s not on the table.” he joked.
“Of course not,” she interjected. “But this playful look on Grantham advertising, even a sexy calendar, display cards, and, at trade shows could sell plenty of your graphics, don’t you think?”
From there the negotiations were easy. Rod accepted our proposal- most of Angie’s ideas. Besides her long legs on a calendar, he wanted the company name displayed on the hood and fenders of the car. And he already had identified three shows where he wanted to display Angela with the car. We left with a sizeable cheque, enough to get back on the track.
Autumn Colours was a fitting name for the October race weekend. The fall colours are usually spectacular here, especially the maple trees, their leaves changing to a striking pallet, from yellow and orange, to resplendent reds. Warm sunny days can be followed by nights cold enough to bring touches of frost. Angie the art lover finds the season glorious.
My tastes in art don’t match hers, but I did like the fresh blue and yellow paint scheme of our repaired Camaro set against Nature’s paintbrush. By Friday evening, our crew had all arrived: Angela and I, son Marty and his girlfriend Suzanne, engine- guy Sam, and a new addition, my boss, Roderick Grantham. He was eager to see his costly team up close- both the car and Angie.
Our hopes were high, but Friday intake inspection put a real damper on the team mood. I registered for Vintage Class, but a sharp-eyed scrutineer immediately noticed a rules violation with our newly painted vehicle.
“You’re running it as a vintage replica, right? The Penske Sunoco Trans-Am Camaro from the late-Sixties.”
“Yes. Got the right shade of blue and the bright yellow lettering. The number used at Riverside back in the day….”
“It’s the other lettering across the front fenders and hood that’s a problem- Grantham Graphics.” She had her phone out. “I’m looking at a picture of the original Penske Camaro. There’s ‘Sunoco’ on the car, but no graphics company.”
“No. It’s a sponsor I picked up to help repair the damage from my September crash….”
“Sorry,” she interrupted. “Can’t do it. The Vintage rulebook says that replica vehicles can only use lettering, colours and numbers true to the original.”
Then the inspector opened the rules bible, thumbing through it until she found the relevant passage. As she quoted it word-for-word, I saw that in my haste for some funding, I’d overlooked the strict rules governing Vintage. Then came her verdict.
“You have a decision to make before you can be classified for the weekend. Either tape over the new advertising or race in the contemporary classes.”
I thought for a few minutes and conferred with Angie and Rod before coming back to talk with the official.
“Which division would I race in if not Vintage?” My boss was here for the weekend, and I wanted to display his advertising on the car.
“Grand Touring- GT1 or GT2, depending on engine displacement. Are you running the original Penske configuration, a 327 V8 and four speed manual transmission? If so, it’d likely be GT2.”
“And what would I be up against?”
“Tough competition. A mix of modern stock cars and pickup trucks converted for road racing, mostly fiberglass bodies on tube-frame chassis. Throw in some high-end BMWs and smaller-engine Porsches. It would be a fast crowd to race with your older, heavier car.”
She seemed to be trying to get me to cover up the lettering and run Vintage. It was important to confer with Rod, after all, his company name would be eliminated. He wasn’t happy.
“Damn it! I don’t like it either way. Why not see how it goes against the regular GT1 and GT2 group?” he advised, eager to see his brand displayed to the other competitors and the spectators.
“OK. Put us in GT2,” I told the inspector tersely. “We’ll show the advertising.”
Then she continued her examination of the Camaro, Bayan escort Ankara tapping on the bodywork with her knuckle. There was a metallic ping along the side of the body from the back corner to the front of the doors. After that, a hollow “thunk” sounded as she moved to the front corner.
“Ah, a fiberglass fender! You can’t just cover up the advertising now. Vintage cars need to run original bodywork. and for early Trans-Am that means sheet metal, no ‘glass. This is strictly illegal, you know, a clear Vintage Class violation. Anything lightweight is cheating!” She seemed a bit hostile now.
“Shit! I didn’t know that. Metal fenders were more expensive!” I shot back defensively.
“The rules are clear, and you aren’t in compliance. Run in GT2 this weekend, or go home. Make your choice!” And with that she spun on her heal and went to the next car in line.
I caught up with her and apologized. The scrutineers know the rulebook like the back of their hands. Pleading ignorance is no more effective than arguing with the cops or the tax people.
“Sorry. We’ll run in Grand Touring,” I said as calmly as possible.
“Good luck!” she said sarcastically, adding a little smirking grin as we passed her station and went to a shady spot to unload the car. The race weekend was off to a bad start.
Our Friday night campfire was more subdued than the last time. Sam compared September lap times for GT2 to ours in Vintage and I didn’t like the result. We were about four seconds per lap slower than the winning car, a big deficit that would become half-way round the track in a ten-lap race. We had no chance of winning against these cars!
“And the slowest times, Sam?” Rod asked.
“About the same as we ran last time out,” was the tough verdict. I was crestfallen. No chance to even place well.
“Just have fun out there, Greg,” Angie encouraged.
“It is as it is Dad, so do your best,” Marty added.
I hadn’t seen enough of him in his teens and early twenties as his mother and I drifted apart. If nothing else this weekend, I’d take heart in our racing bond.
Then Rod spoke up. “I follow a lot of racing on TV. How about I be your crew chief this weekend, Greg? Nothing to lose, right? I’d get a kick out of it, making all those important calls from the pit box,” he joked.
“Well, why not?” Angie replied right away. “After all, it’s partly your car now that your company name is on it. Sam and Marty can look after tires and pit signs to update Greg and call him in if necessary.”
At the time I didn’t recognize the importance of this idea that would change the course of the weekend.
Later that evening, Marty and I talked privately around the dying campfire. Most of the others had drifted off to their tents and I knew that Angie would be waiting for our traditional “Good luck” send-off in our camper. He had something on his mind.
“Mum keeps talking to me about your racing and Angela. She says it’s too dangerous, but mostly she’s really pissed about you being with a fashion model twenty years younger. Thinks she’s young enough to be my sister….”
“It must really bug her,” I agreed, grinning.”
“You have no idea! She’s been online and found some of Angie’s early modelling shots. And that swimwear catalogue deal in the islands last winter. Lots of bare skin, so she thinks that Angie is a tramp who’s going to bring you down. In her words, ‘If racing doesn’t kill him, that bitch will!'”
“That’s funny, but it’s not my problem. We divorced a long time ago. She needs to get her own life.”
“Seriously, I think she still has some feelings for you. She hates Angela and would like nothing more than to see her out of the picture.”
“Not going to happen, son,” I replied smugly.
“Just telling you so you keep your eyes open. You know how hard Mum pushes sometimes to get her own way.”
I knew that and thanked him for the warning, though I didn’t give it much thought as I headed toward the camper, and another exciting romp with my new love.
Things were different in this last race weekend of the season. Word got around among the Vintage competitors that I had been caught breaking some rules during inspection. The Grantham Graphics advertising was no big deal, a rookie mistake with the detailed wording of the lengthy rulebook. But the lightweight front fender was a serious matter, a competitive advantage. The usual racer camaraderie wasn’t there anymore. We were being shunned.
Vintage racing is different from conventional road race competition. It’s supposed to be a sport of ‘gentleman/ gentlewoman’ drivers, usually amateurs who treat their historic vehicles with loving care. Some own and race the same car for many years. Rules about equipment and presentation are very strict, though modern safety equipment is usually required.
A ‘no-touch’ provision is universal. One is not allowed to ‘tap’ the car ahead or alongside to move it out of the way to ease a pass. Common practice in regular race competition, this is forbidden in Vintage racing [though it does occur at some prestige events with paid professional drivers, like the Goodwood Revival in Britain]. An offending driver is treated like a pariah by peers, and their competition license could be suspended by the racing body.
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