That‘s where he rode for the next 75 miles, shadowing Duke, figuring out this new motor, trying to stay smart and stay patient. They had tons of power at the top end, and he could easily maintain Duke‘s pace. But he also realized they couldn‘t match Duke‘s crispness off the corner.
He hoped they didn‘t have a lot of cautions, because restarts put them at a bit of a disadvantage.
But Harvey had been right all along: It was a new day. Jimmy rode patiently behind Duke until just 25 miles remained, and decided it was time to see what he could do. Put up or shut up, you might say.
He timed a run off turn two and got alongside Duke on the backstretch but couldn‘t make the pass, falling back in behind the leader.
Now his mind was troubled. Did he just screw up? Did they awaken Duke and mess up the one shot they might have?
As they hit the front straightaway Jimmy again stepped on the gas. He was on the mat as they screamed along, and this time he was amazed to realize they were clearly pulling past the Ford.
It was true: They had more guts at the top end, and Jimmy beat Duke to the corner and smoothly got down to the inside rail.
They were leading. They had just made a clean, unassisted pass of one of the best American race drivers — and race cars — of the past 20 years. Jimmy couldn‘t hear it, but the people in the stands stood and cheered.
Despite their affection for Duke, they were clearly inspired as they watched the home-state boy with the team nobody had heard of as they seized the day.
Jimmy cruised through the final portion of the race, still tending his tires, not running any harder than he needed. He could glimpse Harvey along the front straight, spreading his hands just a little farther apart with every lap. He figured he was pulling away but he didn‘t dare change his tempo, very much aware that screwing up his rhythm would be a disaster.
He took the white, then the checkered, hardly daring to breathe. Had this really happened? Did they really win? Was that really Duke, riding along in second place?
Jimmy rode through an insurance lap, making his way around that big, beautiful dirt mile. People along the inside rail leaned out to applaud and offer a thumbs-up, and Jimmy waved as he rumbled past.
A sea of people awaited as he reached the front straightaway. Jimmy rapped the throttle a couple of times, listening to the echo from the grandstand as he rolled to a stop. He reached up and turned the fuel valve, and the engine rose in pitch for a moment before falling silent.
The crowd saluted him with a roaring ovation, and Jimmy‘s hands were shaking as he reached down to unbuckle.
“Oh my gosh,” Renee cried as Jimmy removed his helmet. Tears were streaming down her face, and she ignored the sweat and dirt as she leaned in to plant a lingering kiss on his lips. He grinned, and shook his head in disbelief.
“I can‘t believe it!” she said, stepping back, trying to wipe the tears away. “We did it!”
Gregg Richards made no attempt to hide his tears. He stood alongside his race car — a green car owner who one year ago was elated to just make the show — and cried openly.
Mike and Slim were laughing like schoolboys as they helped Jimmy rise from the seat, and as he sat on the back of the cage Jimmy lifted his arms in triumph as the flash from a hundred cameras sizzled and popped.
Jimmy climbed down from the cage, wobbling a little as his feet hit the ground. Somebody handed him a water jug, and he took three long gulps, then poured some water on his face and head, tasting the sweat and dirt as the liquid poured across his lips.
He suddenly extended his arms, looking skyward as he let loose a guttural, exhilarating scream of joy. Photographers scurried to capture the moment and Jimmy was literally shaking with fatigue and emotion.
He stepped over to Gregg, still sobbing, and gave him a bear hug.
“We did it, boss!” Jimmy laughed crazily. “Can you believe it? We finally beat that damned Ford!”