***
Taking the road out of town heading west, I navigate for Chris as we head toward the Clarketown racetrack.
“Uncle Peter suggested meeting at the cafe that’s at the track,” I explain. “He’s a major motorsport buff and wants to do a tour of the place. I thought we might go along, if you feel like it?” I sure hope I don’t look as transparent with my little white lies as I feel.
“Cool. Yeah, that sounds great. I wonder if there’ll be any cars using the circuit today?” he replies. “That would be awesome. Did you bring your camera?”
“Yeah, I did,” I say, patting the outline of the case as it nestles inside the safety of my handbag. “500 yards on the right,” I instruct, based on street signs I’ve seen that he’s totally capable of reading himself. I needn’t have bothered. Of course a qual
