Thursday morning; 24 hours to race time. I feel terrible. I’m dutifully doing breathing treatments and taking everything they said to take. I stay in bed most of the day.
I had to walk two blocks to near where the race started to get my helmet. We were having my helmet speakers refitted at the PCI race radios trailer. There were race vehicles in the tech line waiting to go up on the podium – a two-block long line. Vendors mulled about selling food and sunglasses and all kinds of things. Race fans walked in and out of the race vehicles in line, taking pictures and gathering stickers from whatever race team was handing them out.
Then something tragic happened.
A young man from a chase team was behind the wheel of a trophy truck in line. Often the line is hours long and the driver doesn’t want to wait in line, so he lets a team member take the truck through. When the truck is almost up on the podium for the driver interview, the driver will show up and get in.
Well, the kid went to start the truck to move it up 15 feet and the truck was in gear. The 1000 hp truck started, lunged forward and hit the buggy in line ahead of him, which hit the car ahead of him. There were people in between. One had his arm severed. Tragically, two of them were killed.
At the drivers meeting that night, there was a palpable sadness.
I got to bed as early as I could, still very sick, hoping the antibiotics would kick in after 48 hours.