Chapter 3
So, no reviews or comments for this story last go around. Which is fine, I am only in the 3rd chapter after all, and to be honest, this story is hard to write. I am kind of just winging it more than the other two. That said, I am having a lot of fun writing it, and I hope those who are reading it enjoy this chapter.
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"I love going fast. Some things you just fall in love with right away, and for me, going fast is one of them. I blame my Uncle Carroll; he would always take me for rides in different cars when I was a little girl. Driving as fast and as hard as he could. All to make me smile because he knew I loved going fast. He once told me there's a point—7000 RPM—where everything fades away. When you reach that point, your perception becomes weightless, and it all just disappears. All that's left is a body moving through space and time. 7000 RPM: that's where you encounter it. Can I ask you a question? The only question that matters: Who are you?" - There Are No Lines by Isabel Cadval
-1963-
-Isabel POV-
"Creation is a sheer act of will." I'm not sure where I heard that before, but it rings true. Every invention, from the simplest object like the wheel to the internal combustion engine and the atomic bomb, was ultimately born from the same process. Someone had an idea, and someone else, not always the same person, had the determination to turn that idea into reality. Now, it was my turn to do the same.
I know some would argue, "But Isabel, you've already created something new." And they would be right; the engine I built in the late 1950s was indeed innovative—something never before seen or imagined, and I take pride in it. However, in the grand scheme of things, it was just an engine. I was confident that someone else would eventually develop something similar. Only I, though, could envision or make what I was about to create now
Blaze was something entirely new: a biofuel unlike anything ever imagined or thought possible. It was revolutionary. So much so that I wrote my doctoral thesis on it, even though I knew the members of the doctoral board wouldn't truly understand its significance. In my thesis, I described a method to convert materials such as dead leaves, rotten food, and even human waste into renewable energy that would burn hotter and longer than conventional fuels, while also being cleaner.
They didn't understand it, of course. What I had written was too complex for them to fully grasp. The math alone was overwhelming, and they had to consult several mathematicians to verify my calculations before examining the chemical formula required to make it work. Additionally, a machine needed to be built to process everything. Honestly, looking back, I am surprised they didn't simply discard my thesis. They probably would have if they had believed it was impossible to bring my ideas to life.
Even as I explained everything to them, step by step, about how Blaze could be created, they neither understood nor believed it was possible. To them, it was just a theory—one that, while well-researched, seemed as far-fetched as cold fusion. They believed it would take at least another 100 years before it could be realized. If they thought I could achieve it sooner, they wouldn't just deny me my PhD; they would have done everything possible to discredit me. After all, much of their funding came from oil barons who would not appreciate seeing their profits threatened by a groundbreaking alternative.
This is why I submitted only a partial version of the formula to the committee. They would see it, express their admiration, treat me like a prized dog, pat me on the head, award me my PhD, and then never think about my thesis again.
As Sun Tzu advised, "Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."
And that was my plan. I would keep everything to myself until I was ready to make my move, and no one could stop me. Forget patents; I had no need for them since no one was conducting any research on my work—at least not for the next 10 to 20 years, if not longer. The technology and mathematics required to create it in its purest form simply weren't available. Decades of research and innovation would be necessary for anyone else. Well, anyone who wasn't me.
For me, I could work around today's limitations. That's why, in my private lab—which was really just a rundown garage behind the Shelby American main floor—you'd see a jumble of tubes, wires, valves, and various components seemingly scattered and haphazardly connected all over the place. If I were honest with myself, the inside of the garage resembled a Jackson Pollock painting, but there was a method to the madness. It had nothing to do with running out of space to store everything within the first 24 hours of setup.
Hearing the door to my lab open, I heard a voice say, "Isabel, are you in here, love?"
Looking up from where I was sitting, I saw our driver, Ken Miles, and smiled. Honestly, I didn't particularly like Ken at first. While I could analytically accept that he was a wonderful driver and the right man for the job, emotionally, I struggled to accept him as my Uncle Carroll's replacement driver. I know it was unreasonable, and it wasn't Ken's fault that my uncle had developed a heart condition. But emotions tend to be illogical, and that's why I sometimes wish I could do without them. Yet there were also times when I realized that I couldn't live without them. After all, emotions are what make life worth living.
As time went on, my negative feelings toward Ken gradually transformed into something more positive. His passion for both racing and engineering was exactly what I admired in a person. Sure, he could lose his temper at times, but he wasn't a violent man—well, not really, anyway. He had thrown a wrench at Uncle Carroll more than once, but he never actually struck anyone.
"Over here, Ken. You're just in time," I called out.
"In time for what? And by Satan's balls, it's hot in here," Ken says as he carefully steps inside, feeling like he's entered an active furnace.
"To help me, of course," I reply, turning around in my seat.
As Ken rounds a corner, he spots Isabel and quickly turns away, exclaiming, "Oh God, Jesus Christ! Isabel, seriously, will you put on some clothes?"
The first thing that crosses my mind is, "What is he talking about?" I glance down at myself and see that I'm wearing clothes: a pair of shorts—what I think are called hot shorts—and a white tank top. So what was the big deal?
Then it dawns on me: the tank top is soaked with sweat and semi-transparent, and I'm not wearing a bra underneath. It's obvious that my breasts are visible. Still, I don't see what the fuss is about. I understand the societal taboos, but we're not in public, and Ken is a married man.
Rolling my eyes, I say, "Oh, come off it. Aren't you married? And besides, remember, I'm gay."
"That isn't the point," Ken replies.
Carroll had tried to prepare him for working with Isabel, being very upfront about her being gay, which he already had some misgivings about. However, it was her near-complete disregard for social norms that Ken found most challenging. Like right now. He had come to realize, after getting to know Isabel, that she truly didn't see what the big deal was regarding how she dressed in front of him or the other guys. She dressed for comfort, and in the hot California sun, that often meant wearing as little as she could. This was why Molly, his wife, didn't like Isabel. She called her a tease and a slut behind her back. Completely missing the fact that ot was actually her who had Isabel's full attention.
Ken didn't mind that Isabel was eyeing his wife; in fact, he found it quite amusing and endearing. It was funny to see the normally cold and calculating girl he knew turn bright red whenever Molly was around. The first time Isabel quickly left the room after Molly bent over was so hilarious that he thought he might die laughing.
Of course, it was only Isabel's reactions he found entertaining. If another guy were to look at his wife that way, he wouldn't hesitate to beat the shit out of them. But Isabel posed no threat; if anything, she came across as awkward, much like a teenage boy trying to talk to girls for the first time. In front of Molly, Isabel seemed to lose her voice, leaving poor Molly completely unaware of the effect she had on her. This only made the situation between the two of them more uncomfortable.
"Oh, get over it, Ken, and come here to help me," I say as I walk towards two metal containers. I slowly unhook one of them from a pipe above.
Shaking his head, knowing she wouldn't change her mind no matter what he said, Ken walks over and replies, "Your grandfather is looking for you. They're about to head to the track to test the PT King Cobra 1."
"Really already?" I respond, a bit surprised.
"Yes, really, my dear. You're not the only one who has been working nonstop," Ken says excitedly.
I can't blame him for his excitement. After all, as he mentioned, I wasn't the only one who had been working hard. All the guys in the garage had been putting in significant overtime, but it was still hard to believe they were already ready to test the King Cobra. I hadn't lost track of time that badly and knew it had only been seven months since we started working, two of which were spent just securing funding. It was very impressive that they had built the prototype in just five months. Honestly, I was shocked we were already at this point, but also relieved, as the next racing season started on February 17th of next year—less than five months away. Clearly, they were very motivated to get things done quickly.
To be fair, it helped that I was able to build the PT Type A S. Patton in just four months. Not to take anything away from the team in the garage, but we were mainly waiting for them to finish their part. It turned out that the process took less time than I had anticipated, especially since I had initially thought financing would be an issue. We all did, which is why I had planned for at least four months to secure funding. Without that, we would have had to go it alone if we wanted to be ready for the next racing season. Fortunately, thanks to Pawpaw, that turned out to be a non-issue.
After he failed to secure sponsorship agreements with either Ford or Dodge, we all assumed we would have to manage on our own. While we could build the car using our own funds, that came with considerable risks. However, we were willing to take those risks after Ford and Dodge made it clear they wanted to take control of the entire project rather than collaborate with us. This was something that Pawpaw, Carroll, and I would never agree to, regardless of how much money they offered us, which, to be fair, was a substantial amount.
Fortunately for us, my name seemed to carry more weight than we had expected. As soon as Pawpaw declined offers from Ford and Dodge, another car company stepped in: a small Japanese firm called Toyota. I didn't know much about Toyota at the time, but we gathered that they were eager to expand significantly into international markets. What better way to do that than by winning the World Sportscar Championship?
The deal they offered wasn't entirely to our advantage, but it was more balanced than the proposals from Ford and Dodge. In exchange for their support, they asked for the rights to license any technology I developed while building the car, along with the right to feature their name on the vehicle itself. It was a fair deal, and Pawpaw quickly agreed, despite his initial concerns about collaborating with a Japanese company. You could call it racism if you wanted, but as a WWII veteran, he had issues with both Germans and Japanese, though he felt more resentment toward the latter since he had fought in the European theater, not the Pacific.
I was actually proud of him for overcoming his prejudices. It couldn't have been easy for him, especially considering he had lost friends in both the European and Pacific wars. This change in him showed me that his love for me and his passion for racing outweighed the hate he once harbored. With both Toyota and Goodyear supporting us financially, the rest of the process was relatively straightforward—kind of. We were just about to test the PT King Cobra, and I knew problems would inevitably arise during the testing phase. We would need to address these issues in real time and make adjustments quickly if we wanted to compete in the Rolex 24 at Daytona.
I smiled as I handed him the container. "Then let's hurry and finish up here. Please take this and hook it up to the machine over there," I instructed.
Once Ken took the container from me, I walked over to some valves and adjusted them to the correct settings. As Ken moved toward the machine to connect the container, he asked, "Do I even want to know what I'm holding right now?"
"Don't worry, it's just Bio Matter," I replied flatly.
"Bio Matter?" Ken asks.
"Yes, you know, like dead leaves, rotten food, and things like that," I say as I pick up a different container while he attaches the one I handed him.
"And what about the one you're holding?" Ken asks.
"This is a chemical compound of my own design, and it's far more dangerous than what you have," I reply.
Ken looks at me, slightly concerned, and asks, "How dangerous is it?"
"It's not that dangerous. If the seal cracks, it will only kill me and you before it stops being harmful," I respond coldly and without any emotion.
Ken does a double-take. "Wait, what?" he asks, clearly taken aback.
I wave him off dismissively. "Oh, stop worrying. You'd be dead before you even noticed something was going wrong."
"That isn't comforting, Isabel," Ken replies, his voice heated, but he doesn't make any move to leave.
Rolling my eyes again, I say, "Will you just stop worrying? You're about to test drive an untested car and engine that has the potential to reach a top speed of 200 miles an hour, if not faster."
Ken lets out a groan of displeasure, realizing that he sounds a bit cowardly considering what he is about to do. "Fine, just tell me—will these things really create a new type of fuel?"
"If my math is correct, it should work," I replied as I finished connecting everything. I grabbed a pair of masks and goggles for him.
"What are these for?" Ken asked.
I shrugged. "Just in case."
"Will they help?" he inquired.
I didn't respond, just put the masks and goggles on, then walked away to turn on the machine that would start mixing the formula to create Blaze.
The noise it generated was loud and nearly unbearable—like a steam engine coming to life. It was disruptive and somewhat annoying, but there was a certain beauty to it that only a few could truly understand.
As I watch the pipes overhead, behind, and to the side of us, I feel the power of my invention vibrate through the air. Then, I see a single drop of green liquid fall into a test tube after about 5 minutes, and I can't help but smile. One drop follows another, filling the small 18x150 mm tube with a shimmering green liquid. Once the last drop falls, I turn off the machine, carefully pick up the test tube, and seal it.
"Is that it? Is that what I risked my life for just now?" Ken asks, sounding disappointed, but I simply scoff.
"Is that it?" he asks. "Ken, do you have any idea what I'm holding in my hand right now?"
Shaking his head, Ken responds, "Some type of new fuel that costs us about $5,000 to make, if I remember correctly."
I look over at him and laugh. "That's right, Ken, and every last cent is well worth the effort it took."
"Just for that?" Ken asks, his disbelief evident.
"Yes, just for this. Ken, this little tube of green liquid is worth more than all the money we've invested in the car so far. It has the power to run the PT Type A S. Patton 1 for over 50 miles." I take great pride in the look of shock on his face.
"What?" Ken exclaims, his mind quickly processing the information.
Ken wasn't a stupid guy. Far from it, in fact, and after running some numbers in his head, what he came up with was astounding. The Little Soldier was a masterpiece of fuel efficiency, able to stay on the track for nearly 10 percent longer than any other racecar of its time. Over the years, Ferrari had only further improved on Isabel's design, increasing the runtime to an impressive 20 to 25 percent. For years, it had no competitors—until now. If what Ruth claimed was true, then that small bottle of green liquid already had a runtime nearly a quarter of what the Little Soldier could do.
"I see you're starting to understand, Ken," I say teasingly.
"Absolutely, I get it. But Isabel, I have to ask: will it always be so expensive to produce?" Ken inquires.
"For now, yes, but in the future, no. What I am holding is nothing more than a prototype, similar to the PT Type A S. Patton 1 and 2. This liquid, which I am calling Blaze, was designed exclusively for this engine. We can't use it in anything else without risking damage to the engine block or fuel lines. However, this is just the first step. Soon, very soon, Blaze will be capable of powering much larger and more powerful machines, like tanks or fighter jets," I explain to him.
"My God," is all Ken can say. What more could he possibly add when standing on the threshold of a new era?
Nothing. That was the only answer.