Driving Blind to My Victory

The Mojave Rally was swallowed by a sudden, blinding wall of desert dust, cutting visibility to absolute zero for every driver on the track.

I pressed my headset tighter against my ear. Through the static, the voice of my fianc, Garrett, came throughsteady, warm, and reassuring.

Don't panic, Ellie. You've got five hundred yards before Dead Man's Curve. You can floor it here, push past the car next to you to shave off 0.7 seconds. Then its a hard right-three into a left-two.

Blindly trusting Garretts pace notes, I slammed my foot on the gas, the sand battering my windshield. He was my co-driver, my navigator, and the only man I trusted with my life.

But three seconds later, a soft, mocking chuckle crackled through my earpiece.

"Ellie, babe? Honestly, Dead Man's Curve is actually a right-two into a left-three. But if Chelsea doesn't win the championship this year, shes going to throw another tantrum."

"Youre already a three-time champion. Giving her this one won't kill you."

"Ive already got an ambulance waiting at the bottom of the ridge, and I had them lay down some crash mats. Id never let anything seriously happen to you. Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won't hurt as bad if you don't look."

With a soft click, Garrett cut the feed. He wanted to spare his ears the sound of my car tearing through the guardrails and plummeting off the cliffside.

But he forgot one thing.

I had run this track for five years. Even with my eyes closed, I knew every single inch of this dirt.

"Garrett!"

I screamed his name, my knuckles turning white against the steering wheel. But the headset remained dead. Silence, heavy and suffocating, filled the cabin.

Sweat soaked through my racing gloves. My foot was glued to the floor, the engine roaring as we pushed past 120 miles per hour. At this speed, lifting off wouldn't save me in time. The dust storm completely covered the windshield, and the tires screamed as they spun over loose gravel.

Dead Man's Curvethe most brutal stretch of the Mojavewas right ahead, and I was flying blind.

My brain scrambled to process Garretts words. "Did he really just feed me fatal pace notes just to hand Chelsea the trophy?"

Dead Man's Curve was named that for a reason. Countless racers had been broken by this mountain. The road was narrow, the turns sharp, and the drop-off was a sheer cliff. A single miscalculation meant free-falling into a ravine. Best-case scenario: a dozen broken bones and a shattered career. Worst-case: a body bag.

Yet Garrett spoke of crash mats like he was tucking me into bed.

Was he insane? He had been in the car with me the last time we flipped.

Five years ago, during our very first trial run here, Garrett had been so terrified of me getting hurt that he secretly paid the track crew to line the ravines with high-density rescue pads. But my nerves got the better of me. I panicked, slammed the pedal to the floor, and missed the turn entirely.

Garrett was in the passenger seat next to me. As the car rolled over, his immediate instinct was to throw his body over mine, shielding my head. Even with the safety pads, the impact sent us spinning into the rock face. I lay there shivering in his arms, and despite the agonizing pain of his fractured wrist, he stroked my hair and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You're the best driver out there. You're safe."

I spent the next two years driving myself to the bone, running lap after lap under the scorching sun, just to win the championship. Because under rally rules, the champion's co-driver had the option to stay in the air-conditioned command center, away from the dust and the danger. I won the title for him. I took the microphone in front of thousands of fans, and when they asked if I wanted prize money or endorsements, I shook my head.

"I just want my co-driver to never have to risk his life in the passenger seat again."

I did it to protect him. And this was my reward.

"Right-three into left-two." The moment he said it, I knew it was wrong. But I was already committed, flying blind in a storm of dust.

Suddenly, Garretts voice patched through the main rescue channel.

"Search and rescue! Car number seven, Ellie Ross, has gone over at Dead Man's Curve! Dispatch immediately! We need to save her!"

My heart turned to ice. He was so sure I was going to crash. Already, the clueless media would be drafting headlines: "Three-time Mojave Queen Falls from Grace." He was clearing the path for Chelsea. I couldn't let them have it.

"Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won't hurt as bad."

Garrett's hollow words echoed in my mind.

I closed my eyes. But not to surrender.

I closed them to remember.

Eighteen seconds had passed since his last correct note. At my current speed, that meant...

I had it. I knew exactly where I was.

Even with the sand blotting out the world, the map in my head was clear. I feather-touched the brakes, dropped the gears, and prepped the wheel.

Then, a roaring engine behind me. Someone was catching up. Not just one cartwo.

Three yards. Two yards. Now!

I yanked the wheel to the inside, hugging the cliffside blindly. It was a suicidal gamble, but my only choice.

"CRASH!"

A deafening impact rattled my teeth. Chelsea's car clipped my rear quarter panel, the sheer force of her momentum spinning my car through the apex. I slammed hard against the canyon wall, the car tilting sideways and wedging into the rocks. But I made the turn.

Behind me, a sickening crunch and a scream of metal echoed down the ravine as the third car missed the turn entirely.

My heart beat so hard it felt like it would break through my ribs. As I sat there shivering in the tilted cabin, I noticed my collar was torn. The silver St. Christopher medalthe one Garrett had given me for my twenty-first birthdayhad shattered against the steering wheel. Only the frayed red cord remained around my neck.

"It's not tacky," hed insisted back then, kissing my forehead. "Its a protector. As long as you wear it, its like Im right there with you, Ellie. You're going to be the first queen of the Mojave."

I ripped the remaining cord from my neck, leaving a thin, burning welt. I stared at the broken silver pieces and threw them to the floorboards. It had kept me safe, I suppose. But some things stay broken forever.

Suddenly, static hissed in my helmet. Because of the impact, my receiver had glitched and crossed onto Chelsea's private radio channel.

"Garrett, babe... if you're this good to me, aren't you worried Ellie will be furious?" Chelseas voice was a soft, calculated purr.

"Worried? She's hogged your spotlight for three years. It's your turn to be queen. Besides, she's probably unconscious in a ravine right now. By the time she wakes up, she won't remember a thing."

The sheer cruelty in his voice made me shake. Along with his words, a wave of physical pain finally hit me. The car was tilted at a ninety-degree angle, trapping me inside. Every breath sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my left shoulder.

Within minutes, the rescue crew arrived, hauling the car back onto four wheels.

"Ellie Ross! Can you hear us?"

"Get the stretcher! The driver has a suspected collarbone fracture and head trauma!"

The paramedics removed my helmet, but the audio feed in my earpiece kept playing.

"I tapped her car on the way past," Chelsea giggled. "That loud crash down the cliff... that had to be her."

"You're brilliant, sweetheart," Garrett replied. "I'm taking you out for oysters tonight. Your favorite."

Oysters. I had spent years suffering through high-end seafood bars with Garrett, popping allergy pills and hiding my hives, just because I thought "he" loved it. I realized now he was taking Chelsea's favorite meals and feeding them to me. The realization burned away the pain.

I pushed past the paramedics, climbed back into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut.

"Ellie! Stop! You're injured! You need to get to a hospital!"

I ignored them, threw the car into gear with my right arm, and roared back onto the track.

Chelsea, Garrett... you want to take my crown? Not in this lifetime.

By now, I was far behind the pack. The live broadcast commentators were already eulogizing my career.

"Weve just received word from the track. Three-time champion Ellie Ross has suffered a major crash near Dead Mans Curve. It's a devastating turn of events for the crowd favorite."

"It really is. Fans were hoping to see Ellie and her fianc, star navigator Garrett, make history today. But the crown is up for grabs now, and Chelsea, who has played bridesmaid for three years, is currently leading the pack."

My left arm hung uselessly at my side. I grabbed a spare harness strap and bound my arm tightly to my chest to keep it from jarring. Everything relied on my right hand.

As the dust storm cleared, the track ahead became visible. I didn't need pace notes anymore. I knew every turn.

"Chelsea is entering the final stretch!" the commentator screamed. "She's almost at the finish line!"

At the finish line, Garrett was already standing near the barrier, holding a massive bouquet of red roses next to a giant banner that read: "TO MY QUEEN, CHELSEA."

Reporters swarmed him. "Garrett! The race isn't over, and Ellie is reportedly injured. What is this?"

He smiled smoothly for the cameras. "My queen has worked hard for this. I wanted to make sure she had a proper celebration."

"But Ellie"

"Only a true queen of the Mojave deserves my heart. Ive waited five years for this moment."

Suddenly, the crowd gasped.

"Wait! Look at the track! An orange car has just blasted into the final straightaway! It's number seven! Ellie Ross is still in the race!"

I squeezed the wheel with my right hand, gritting my teeth through the pain, and drove straight at Chelsea's blue car. I didn't lift.

I rammed hera metal-on-metal screech that sent both our cars crossing the finish line in a cloud of burning rubber.

"I see it! It's number seven, Ellie Ross! She's done the impossible!"