For two weeks before the Santa Barbara race, Woody spent most of his time working on the Black Tiger. Randy made the deal with Worm, agreeing to pay Woody's wages. Randy and Rocky rented an apartment in Hermosa Beach so they could be near the car, and the Black Tiger was given a thorough overhaul from rear axle to fan belt. In those two weeks Woody became more and more fond of Randy. The man had a buoyancy of spirit and a quick humor that was completely captivating. It was hard to believe that he had any fears at all about the forthcoming race. He spoke of it with enthusiasm and excitement, as if it were something he was looking forward to eagerly.
Woody often wanted to ask him whether he still felt nervous about it, but could not bring himself to do so.
The Thursday before the race, which was to be held over the weekend, they took the Black Tiger out to the salt flats, and Randy let Woody drive her. Woody had once wanted nothing more in life than to be seated behind her wheel. But now that the opportunity was offered him, he sought to get out of it.
"I'm not used to the car," he said. "I might chew up your gearbox."
"Nonsense," said Randy. "Hop in. She's getting maximum torque at six thousand. Rev her up to that before you change. Then change fast and with full throttle. You'll get a real thrill out of it."
When he got going, Woody did get a thrill out of it. For a while he experienced the old exhilaration at his effortless arrowing forward in the Black Tiger, with the landscape around reduced to a blur. The car handled much more delicately than the MG. It was, he told himself, a real racing machine. He glanced at the speedometer and saw he was hitting a hundred and sixty in high. But when he got back and climbed out he was trembling slightly and his mouth was dry.
"How'd she feel?" asked Randy.
"Beautiful," Woody replied.
"One day," Randy said, "you might be able to race her yourself." Woody hoped heartily that that day would never come.