The Art of Racing in the Rain

by Garth Stein

Imagine this. Imagine having your wife die suddenly of a brain cancer. Then imagine having her parents attack you mercilessly in order to gain custody of your daughter. Imagine that they exploit allegations of sexual molestation against you; they hire very expensive and clever lawyers because they have much more money than you have. Imagine that they prevent you from having any contact with your six-year-old daughter for months on end. And imagine they restrict your ability to earn money to support yourself and, of course, as you hope, your daughter. How long would you last before your will was broken?

Nothing had been solved. And yet. I had seen them together. I had seen them look at each other and giggle with relief. Which reaffirmed my faith in the balance of the universe.

The zebra is everywhere. I suddenly realized. The zebra. It is not something outside of us. The zebra is something inside of us. Our fears. Our own self-destructive nature. The zebra is the worst part of us when we are face-to-face with our worst times. The demon is us!

you would be testing the vehicles.” Denny’s eyes got extremely large and he sucked in a huge breath of air, as did I. Was this guy saying what we thought he was saying? “In Italy,” Denny said. “Yes. You would be provided with an apartment for you and your daughter. And of course, a company car—a Fiat—as part of your compensation package.” “To live in Italy,” Denny said. “And test-drive Ferraris.” “Si.” Denny rolled his head around. He turned around in a circle, looked down at me, laughed. “Why me?” Denny asked. “There are a thousand guys who can drive this car.” “Don Kitch tells me you are an exceptional driver in the wet weather.” “I am. But that can’t be the reason.” “No,” Luca said. “You are correct.” He stared at Denny, his clear blue eyes smiling. “But I would prefer to tell you more about those reasons when you join me in Maranello, and I can invite you to my house for dinner.” Denny nodded and chewed his lip. He tapped Luca’s business card against his thumbnail. “I appreciate your generous offer,” he said. “But I’m afraid certain things prevent me from leaving this country—or even this state—at the moment. So I have to decline.” “I know about your troubles,” Luca said. “That is why I am here.” Denny looked up, surprised. “I will keep the position available for you until your situation is resolved and you can make your decision free from the burden of circumstance. My telephone is on my card.” Luca smiled and shook Denny’s hand again. He slipped into the Ferrari. “I ...

“But what if I don’t win?” he asked. “There is no dishonor in losing the race,” Don said. “There is only dishonor in not racing because you are afraid to lose.”

Annika, while I understand how angry you must be, I wonder if you understand what’s going on, what the fallout is. They won’t let me have my daughter. Do you realize that?” Annika looked up at him and shrugged. “They want me to be registered as a sex offender, and that will mean that I will always have to register with the police, wherever I live. And I will never be able to see my daughter again without supervision. Did they tell you about that?”

“Annika, when I saw Eve for the first time, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t walk. I felt if she were out of my sight for a moment, I might wake up from a dream and find her gone. My entire world revolved around her.”

“It never could have worked between you and me. There are a million reasons. My daughter, my age, your age, Eve. In a different time, in a different place? Maybe. But not now. Not three years ago. You’re a wonderful woman, and I know that you will find the right partner and you will be very happy for the rest of your life.” She looked up at him, and her eyes were so big. “I’m very sorry that it won’t be me, Annika,” he said. “But one day you will find someone who stops the world for you as Eve stopped the world for me. I promise you.” She looked deeply into her latte. “Zoë’s my daughter,” he said. “I love her like your father loves you. Please, Annika, don’t take her away from me.” Annika didn’t look up from her coffee, but I glanced at her friend. Tears hung on her lower lids.

The race is long. It is better to drive within oneself and finish the race behind the others than it is to drive too hard and crash.

About his mother’s blindness, which came on when Denny was a boy; he cared for her until he left home after high school. About how his father told Denny that if he didn’t stay to help with the farm and his mother, he shouldn’t bother keeping in touch at all. About how Denny called every Christmas for years until his mother finally answered the phone and listened without speaking. For years, until she finally asked how he was doing and if he was happy.

extremes. Finding himself broke. And finding himself on the telephone with his blind mother, asking her for some kind of help, any kind of help, so that he could keep his daughter; and her response that she would give him everything if only she could meet her grandchild. Her hands on Zoë’s hopeful face; her tears on Zoë’s dress. “Such a sad story,” Mike said, pouring himself another shot of tequila. “Actually,” Denny said, examining his can of Diet Coke, “I believe it has a happy ending.”

“Inside each of us resides the truth,” I began, “the absolute truth. But sometimes the truth is hidden in a hall of mirrors. Sometimes we believe we are viewing the real thing, when in fact we are viewing a facsimile, a distortion.

James Bond escaped his hall of mirrors by breaking the glass, shattering the illusions, until only the true villain stood before him. We, too, must shatter the mirrors. We must look into ourselves and root out the distortions until that thing which we know in our hearts is perfect and true, stands before us. Only then will justice be served.”

“That recess was the longest forty-five minutes of my life,” Denny said. I waited for his answer. “She recanted,” he said. “They dropped the charges.” He fought it, I know, but it was hard for him to breathe. “They dropped the charges, and I’m free.” Denny might have been able to hold it off if we had been alone, but Mike wrapped him in a hug, and Denny unleashed the years of tears that had been dammed behind mud and determination and the ability to always find another finger to stick in the leaking dike. He cried so hard.

“Yes, Luca, thank you.” Plop, plop. “Luca.” “Si?” “Now will you tell me why?” Denny asked. Another long pause. “I would prefer to tell you—” “Yes, I know, Luca. I know. But it would help me so much if you could see your way to telling me now. For my own peace of mind.” “I understand your need,” Luca said. “I will tell you. Many years ago, when my wife passed away, I almost died from grief.” “I’m sorry,” Denny said, no longer working the cookie batter, simply listening. “Thank you,” Luca said. “It took me a long time to know how to respond to people offering their condolences. Such a simple thing, yet filled with much pain. I’m sure you understand.” “I do,” Denny said. “I would have died from grief, Denny, if I had not received help, if I had not found a mentor who offered me his hand. Do you understand? My predecessor at this company offered me a job driving cars for him. He saved my life, not merely for me, but for my children as well. This man passed away recently—he was very old—but still, sometimes I see his face, I hear his voice, and I remember him. What he offered me is not for me to keep, but for me to give to another. That is why I feel very fortunate that I am able to offer my hand to you.” Denny stared at the phone as if he could see Luca in it. “Thank you, Luca, for your hand, and for telling me why you have offered it.”

I can remember only a few times, with Johnny Ford, Jeff Dunn, Doug Dorman, offering even a facsimile of this kind of mentoring and always eventually proving it was conditional or temporary and never for such deep reasons, reasons they never disclosed.

My life seems like it has been so long and so short at the same time. People speak of a will to live. They rarely speak of a will to die.

I don’t want Denny to worry about me. I don’t want to force him to take me on a one-way visit to the vet. He loves me so much. The worst thing I could possibly do to Denny is make him hurt me. The concept of euthanasia has some merit, yes, but it is too fraught with emotion. I much prefer the idea of assisted suicide, which was developed by the inspired physician Dr. Kevorkian. It’s a machine that allows an ailing elder to push a button and take responsibility for his own death. There is nothing passive about the suicide machine. A big red button. Press it or don’t. It is a button of absolution.

It is not. We could never assure every person arriving at the choice to push such a button was not coerced by his family, medical staff or their own guilt at being a burden.

racing in the rain is also about the mind! It is about owning one’s own body. About believing that one’s car is merely an extension of one’s body. About believing that the track is an extension of the car, and the rain is an extension of the track, and the sky is an extension of the rain. It is about believing that you are not you; you are everything. And everything is you.

“You’ve always been with me,” Denny says to me. “You’ve always been my Enzo.” Yes. I have. He’s correct. “It’s okay,” he says to me. “If you need to go now, you can go.”

“The first time I saw you,” he says, “I knew we belonged together.”

After it is all over, after the last race has been won, after the season’s champion has been crowned, he sits alone in the infield of the Tamburello corner, on the grass that is soggy from many days of rain. A bright figure in his Ferrari-red Nomex racing suit, which is covered with patches of the many sponsors who want him as their figurehead, their image, as the one whom they can hold before the world as their symbol, the champion sits alone. All around Japan, Brazil, around Italy, Europe, the world, people celebrate his victory. In the trailers and the back rooms, the other drivers, some of whom are half his age, shake their heads in amazement. To have accomplished what he has accomplished. To have endured what he has endured. To have become a Formula One champion out of nowhere. At his age. It is nothing less than a fairy tale.

“Come ti chiami?” he asks the boy. “Enzo,” the boy says. The champion looks up, startled. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t write. He doesn’t speak. “Enzo?” he asks, finally. “Si,” the boy says. “Mi chiamo Enzo. Anch’io voglio diventare un campione.” Stunned, the champion stares at the boy. “He says he wants to be a champion,” the father translates, misinterpreting the pause. “Like you.”

We do not see things the way they are, we see them as we are. —ANAÏS NIN