Read the Art of Racing in the Rain Online

  GARTH STEIN

RACING in the RAIN

MY LIFE Equally A Dog

For Muggs

"With your mind power,

your determination,

your instinct,

and the feel every bit well,

you can wing very high."

—AYRTON SENNA

Contents

Cover

Championship Page

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Affiliate Nine

Chapter 10

Affiliate Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Xiii

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter 15

Chapter Sixteen

Affiliate Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Affiliate Xix

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-Ane

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Xx-3

Chapter Twenty-Four

Affiliate 20-Five

Chapter 20-Half-dozen

Chapter 20-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Affiliate Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter 30-One

Affiliate Thirty-Ii

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Affiliate 30-Five

Affiliate Thirty-Six

Chapter 30-Vii

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-Ane

Affiliate Twoscore-Two

Chapter Forty-3

Chapter Twoscore-Four

Chapter 40-Five

Chapter Twoscore-Six

Affiliate Forty-Seven

Chapter Xl-Eight

Chapter Xl-Ix

Chapter L

Affiliate Fifty-I

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter L-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Affiliate L-Five

Imola, Italy

Acknowledgements

Near the Author

Extras

Read an Interview with Writer Garth Stein

Check out cool photos of Garth racing, his canis familiaris, Comet, and more than!

Also by Garth Stein

Copyright

About the Publisher

Affiliate I

Gestures are all that I have; sometimes they must be chiliad in nature. And while I occasionally cross the line into the globe of the melodramatic, it is what I must do in order to communicate conspicuously and finer. In order to brand my indicate understood. I have no words I can rely on because, much to my dismay, my tongue was designed long and flat and loose. Information technology is a horribly ineffective tool for pushing food effectually my mouth while chewing. And an even less effective tool for making clever and complicated sounds that can be linked together to form sentences. And that'due south why I'm hither now waiting for Denny to come habitation. He should be here soon. I'm lying on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor in a puddle of my own urine.

I'm old. And while I'm very capable of getting older, that's non the manner I want to get out. Shot full of pain medication to reduce the swelling of my joints. Vision fogged with cataracts. Puffy, plasticky packages of Doggie Depends stocked in the pantry. I'm sure Denny would get me one of those piffling wagons I've seen on the streets, the ones that cradle the hindquarters then a dog tin can drag his butt behind him when things start to fail. That'south humiliating and degrading. I'm not certain if it's worse than dressing up a dog for Halloween, only information technology's close. He would do it out of beloved, of form. I'g sure he would keep me live as long as he possibly could. But I don't want to be kept alive. Because I know what's next. I've seen it on Boob tube. A documentary I saw about Mongolia. It was the best thing I've ever seen on tv set, other than the 1993 Thousand Prix of Europe, of course. That was the greatest automobile race of all time, in which Ayrton Senna proved himself to be a genius in the rain. Subsequently the 1993 Grand Prix, the best thing I've e'er seen on TV is a documentary that explained everything to me, made it all clear. It told the whole truth: when a canis familiaris is finished living his lifetimes every bit a dog, his next life will be as a homo.

I've always felt almost homo. I've ever known that there's something virtually me that's unlike than other dogs. Certain, I'm stuffed into a dog'south body, only that's but the shell. It's what's inside that's important. The soul. And my soul is very human.

The door opens, and I hear him with his familiar cry, "Yo, Zo!" Unremarkably, I tin't help but put aside my pain and hoist myself to my feet. Then I'll wag my tail, sling my tongue effectually, and shove my face into his crotch. It takes humanlike willpower to hold dorsum on this particular occasion, but I exercise. I hold back. I don't go up. I'm acting.

"Enzo?"

I hear his footsteps, the concern in his vox. He finds me and looks downwards. I elevator my head, wag my tail feebly so it taps against the floor. I play the part.

He shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. He sets down the plastic purse from the grocery that has his dinner in it. I can smell roast chicken through the plastic. This evening he'due south having roast craven and an iceberg lettuce salad.

"Oh, Enz," he says.

He reaches down to me, crouches, touches my head like he does, along the pucker behind the ear. Then I elevator my head and lick at his forearm.

"What happened, kid?" he asks.

Gestures can't explain.

"Can yous get up?"

I try, and I scramble. My centre takes off, lunges alee because no, I can't. I panic. I thought I was just acting, simply I actually can't get upwards. Darn. Life imitating fine art.

"Take it like shooting fish in a barrel, kid," he says, pressing downward on my chest to at-home me. "I've got you lot."

He lifts me easily, he cradles me, and I can scent the day on him. I tin smell everything he's done. His work, the automobile shop where he stands behind the counter all day. He makes dainty with the customers who yell at him considering their BMWs don't work right and information technology costs also much to fix them. And that makes them mad and so they accept to yell at someone. I tin smell his lunch. He went to the Indian buffet he likes. All you can consume. It'southward cheap, and sometimes he takes a container with him and steals extra portions of the tandoori chicken and xanthous rice and has it for dinner, likewise. I can smell beer. He stopped somewhere. The Mexican restaurant up the hill. I can smell the tortilla chips on his breath. Now it makes sense. Commonly, I'g excellent at keeping track of fourth dimension, but I wasn't paying attending because of my emotional thoughts.

He places me gently in the tub and turns on the handheld shower thing and says, "Easy, Enz."

He says, "Sorry I was late. I should have come straight dwelling, but the guys from piece of work insisted. I told Craig I was quitting, and . . ."

I didn't want him to feel bad almost this. I wanted him to come across the obvious. That it'southward okay for him to permit me go. He's been going through so much, and he's finally through information technology. He needs to non have me around to worry about anymore. He needs me to complimentary him to exist bright.

He is and then vivid. He shines. He'south beautiful with his hands that grab things and his tongue that says things. And the way he stands and chews his food for and so long, mashing information technology into a paste earlier he swallows. I will miss him and little Zoë, and I know they will miss me. Simply I tin't let these feelings become in the style of my grand program. After this happens, Denny will be free to live his life, and I will return to earth in a new course, as a man. And when I render I will observe him and milk shake his hand and comment on how

talented he is. Then I will flash at him and say, "Enzo says hello," and plow and walk chop-chop abroad. "Exercise I know you?" he will phone call, "Take we met before?"

After the bath he cleans the kitchen floor while I watch. He gives me my food, which I eat too rapidly over again, and sets me upwardly in front of the TV while he prepares his dinner.

"How about a tape?" he says.

"Yep, a tape," I respond, but of form, he doesn't hear me.

He puts in a video from 1 of his races and he turns it on and nosotros scout. It's one of my favorites. The racetrack is dry for the pace lap. Then, just afterwards the light-green flag is waved, indicating the outset of the race, there is a wall of rain, a torrential downpour that engulfs the track. All the cars around him spin out of command, and he drives through them as if the rain didn't fall on him. It'due south like he had a magic spell that cleared water from his path. Just like the 1993 M Prix of Europe, when Senna passed iv cars on the opening lap. And these were four of the best title drivers in their title cars—Schumacher, Wendlinger, Hill, Prost. He passed them all like he had a magic spell.

Denny is every bit good as Ayrton Senna. Just no i sees him because he has responsibilities. He has his girl, Zoë, and he had his wife, Eve, who was sick until she died, and he has me. And he lives in Seattle when he should live somewhere else. And he has a job. But sometimes when he goes away he comes back with a trophy. He shows it to me and tells me all about his races and how he shone on the track. How he'd taught those other drivers in Sonoma or Texas or Mid-Ohio what driving in wet weather is actually about.

When the tape is over, he says, "Permit's go out," and I struggle to get up.

He lifts my butt into the air and centers my weight over my legs, and so I'm okay. To show him, I rub my muzzle against his thigh.

"There'due south my Enzo."

We get out our apartment; the night is sharp, absurd, and breezy and articulate. We only go down the block and dorsum considering my hips hurt so much, and Denny sees. Denny knows. When we get dorsum, he gives me my bedtime cookies and I curl into my bed on the floor next to his. He picks up the phone and dials.

"Mike," he says. Mike is Denny's friend from the shop where they both work behind the counter. Customer relations, they phone call it. Mike'southward a little guy with friendly easily that are pink and e'er washed clean of smell. "Mike, tin you cover for me tomorrow? I take to have Enzo to the vet again."

Nosotros've been going to the vet a lot recently to get different medicines that are supposed to help make me more comfortable. But they don't, really. And since they don't, and considering all that went on yesterday, I've set the Master Plan in motility.

Denny stops talking for a minute, and when he starts again, his vocalism doesn't audio similar his vox. It'southward rough, similar when he has a cold or allergies.

"I don't know," he says. "I'm non sure it'south a circular trip visit."

I may not be able to course words, simply I understand them. And I'1000 surprised by what he said, fifty-fifty though I set it up. For a moment, I'm surprised my plan is working. It is the best thing for all involved, I know. It's the right matter for Denny to exercise. He'due south done and so much for me, my whole life. I owe him the gift of setting him free. Letting him rise upwards. We had a good run, and now it's over; what'due south wrong with that?

Chapter Two

He picked me out of a pile of puppies, a tangled, rolling mass of paws and ears and tails. We were behind a barn in a smelly field about a town in eastern Washington called Spangle. I don't call up much about where I came from, but I remember my female parent. She was a big Labrador who would walk slowly across the yard as my littermates and I chased after her. Honestly, our mother didn't seem to similar usa much, and she was fairly indifferent to whether we ate or starved. She seemed relieved whenever i of us left. 1 fewer yipping puppy tracking her down to drain her of her milk.

I never knew my father. The people on the subcontract told Denny that he was a shepherd-poodle mix, but I don't believe it. I never saw a dog that looked like that on the subcontract. The lady was dainty, only the alpha man—the guy in charge—was mean. He would expect y'all in the eyes and lie even if telling the truth was simply as easy. He went on at length about the differences in intelligence of dog breeds. He firmly believed that shepherds and poodles were the smart ones but that Labradors were more than gentle. Therefore a puppy would be more desirable—and more valuable—if it was a mix of these breeds. All a bunch of junk. Everyone knows that shepherds and poodles aren't specially smart. They're responders and reactors, not contained thinkers. Especially the blue-eyed sheepdogs from Down Under—Australia—that people make such a fuss over when they take hold of a Frisbee. Sure, they're clever and quick, simply they don't recall outside the box; they're all well-nigh convention.

I'yard sure my father was a terrier. Considering terriers are trouble solvers. They'll do what yous tell them, just just if it happens to exist in line with what they wanted to do anyhow. There was a terrier similar that on the subcontract. An Airedale. Big and brown-black and tough. No ane messed with him. He didn't stay with us in the gated field behind the firm. He stayed in the barn downwardly the colina by the creek, where the men went to set up their tractors. But sometimes he would come up up the hill, and when he did, everyone steered clear. Word in the field was he was a fighting dog the alpha human kept separate because he'd impale a dog for sniffing in his direction. He'd rip the fur from a domestic dog's neck because of a lazy glance. And when a female dog was in heat, he'd mate with her and go nearly his business without a idea about who was watching or who cared. I've often wondered if he's in fact my father. I accept his brown-black coloring and my coat is slightly wiry, and people frequently comment that I must be function terrier. I similar to think I am.

I remember the heat on the day I left the farm. Every mean solar day was hot in Spangle, and I thought the globe was just a hot place considering I never knew what cold was virtually. I had never seen rain, didn't know much about h2o. Water was the stuff in the buckets that the older dogs drank, and information technology was the stuff the blastoff man sprayed out of the hose and into the faces of dogs who might want to choice a fight. But the day Denny arrived was uncommonly hot. My littermates and I were tussling effectually like nosotros ever did, and a hand reached into the pile and suddenly I was dangling loftier in the air.

"This i," a man said.

It was my commencement glimpse of the rest of my life. He was slender, with long and lean muscles. Not a big man, but stiff. He had keen, icy blue eyes. His choppy hair and short, scruffy beard were dark and wiry, like an Irish terrier.

"The pick of the litter," the lady said. She was nice; I always liked it when she cuddled us in her soft lap. "The sweetest. The best."

"Nosotros were thinkin' a keepin' 'im," the alpha human being said, stepping up with his big boots caked with mud from the creek, where he was patching a fence. That was the line he always used. Heck, I was a pup only a dozen weeks sometime, and I'd already heard that line a bunch of times. He used information technology to get more money.

"Volition you let him go?"

"Fur a price," the blastoff human being said, squinting at the sky, bleached a stake blue past the sun. "Fur a price."

Chapter Iii

Very gently. Similar there are eggshells on your pedals," Denny always says, "and you don't want to break them. That's how yous drive in the rain."

When we sentinel videos together—which we've done ever since the very kickoff twenty-four hour period I met him—he explains these things to me. (To me!) Remainder, anticipation, patience. These are all vital. Using your side vision, seeing things you've never seen before. Feeling the road, driving by the seat of the pants. Just what I've ever liked best is when he talks about having no memory. No memory of things he'd washed but a second before. Good or bad. Because retention is fourth dimension folding dorsum on itself. To recollect is to exit the present. In gild to reach whatsoever kind of success in automobile racing, a driver must never remember.

This is why drivers compulsively record their every move, their every race, with cockpit cameras and in-car video. A driver cannot be a witness to his

own greatness. This is what Denny says. He says racing is doing. Information technology is beingness a role of a moment in fourth dimension and existence aware of nothing else merely that moment. The bang-up champion Julian SabellaRosa has said, "When I am racing, my listen and my trunk are working so quickly and so well together, I must be sure not to retrieve, or else I will definitely make a error."

Chapter Four

Denny moved me far from the farm in Spangle to a Seattle neighborhood chosen Leschi. He lived in a lilliputian flat he rented on Lake Washington. I didn't enjoy flat living much, equally I was used to broad-open spaces. And I was very much a puppy. Notwithstanding, we had a balcony that overlooked the lake, which gave me pleasure since I am part water dog, on my mother's side.

I grew speedily, and during that starting time year, Denny and I forged a deep fondness for each other as well as a feeling of trust. Which is why I was surprised when he fell in honey with Eve so quickly.

He brought her home and she was sweetness smelling, like him. Full of fermented drinks that fabricated them both act funny, they were hanging on each other and pulling at each other, tugging, and biting playfully. Information technology kind of reminded me of the way I used to wrestle with my littermates. Only dissimilar somehow.

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