At the seventh lap, a hellish gauntlet of consecutive downhill S-curves loomed ahead on the ice and snow track.
At the entry point, I was two full car lengths behind Colt. We hit the first turn.
Colt hit his brakes right at the universally accepted optimal point for this track. I waited a full half second longer before I slammed on mine.
My sister screamed from the stands. Everyone watching thought I'd lost my damn mind.
Only I knew the course held a tiny, overlooked secret.
Beneath the ice at the entrance to the first curve sat a slightly raised strip of frozen earth. Hit it just right, and your tires would get a split-second spike in grip.
The sweet spot was barely as wide as a single tire.
In my past life, I'd spent three whole months hunting down that perfect line. In this life,
