Nick Dawson

We said nothing. We just waited. If this turns out how we fear we do, we may have just lost one of the greatest 12 Hours of Sebring drivers we ever knew.

This is the exact reason the Prototype class decided to go to closed-cockpits. Well, for aerodynamic advantages too, but the carbon monocoque plays a giant part in it as well. It was made to protect the drivers in situations like this, not leave them exposed to everything in the world.

I just don’t get it. I was in the same car just before he was, everything was working perfectly. Then, I finish my stint, and the next lap, the brakes just disappear. Saying the brake line was cut was crap, the crew changed the tires too quick for that to happen. But before we knew it, he went into the turn one tire barrier at 140 miles an hour, with no way to stop.

He was already rushed to the hospital, in critical condition, but what would happen now? This tension was destroying the crap out of me.

We waited as the official stepped onto the podium. His face gave us all the news we needed. He was gone.

“Today, I am sad to announce, that we have lost the face of the 12 Hours of Sebring. During his last official race, as he planned to retire after this he lost the brakes on the front stretch,then plowed into the wall at approximately 140 miles per hour, the tire wall crushing his lungs. CPR wasn’t enough to get him breathing again as we weren’t able to get him the right equipment before he reached the hospital.

“Rest in peace, Frank Gould.” He walked off, saying nothing more.

It was really done, Frank was gone. We have just lost the greatest thing to happen to this race. He was the man that kept it alive.

I looked down to my right, Kiara crying her eyes out on my shoulder. She was in just as much shock as I was. The worst part, we could do nothing about it.

Another official stepped up to the podium. “To all the drivers that were on track. We are going to honor Frank by lining up, single file, and driving around the track for twelve laps. To McDowell Motorsports, you three will be driving the pace car, with your helmets on, and Frank’s on top of it. Nick will be driving the car, as he was the last one to step into the car before Frank drove it. This’ll happen in fifteen minutes.

“Godspeed Frank.”

We all walked out of the conference room, still in shock. Kiara had finally settled down, but not enough to make comprehensible gestures (she’s mute). Eric was silent, which I expected from him, as Frank was his mentor. I don’t even want to fathom his thought process right now, I just hope it wasn’t suicidal, or angry.

We finally became calm, sort of. We were calm enough to handle the pace car. We put on our chrome-plated helmets, as we already had these as a tribute to his final race, as he had a running gag about this as he went on through his career.

 We stepped into the pace car, staring the carnage that was turn one straight into the eye. We all almost simultaneously broke into tears, but held strong, as we had one last tribute to do.

I threw the Dodge Challenger into first, bringing the pace speed up to 100, a safe speed to do this in a timely matter. As I drove around the track, I looked over some of Frank’s favorite parts of the track, especially the chicane at the top end of the track, which I drove through, taking the exact line as he did.

I never knew what Frank’s love with this race was, but I always learned not to question it, as he was always to the defensive if we said anything about it.

We got the command to roll down the windows, so that we could hear Amazing Grace played over the intercoms for all the drivers to hear. It was working me over too much, any more of this, and I might accidentally crash the pace car into a wall from lack of vision.

Thankfully, I didn’t, and we finished the twelve laps without a hitch. With nothing to do, we sat in the garage and cried for a couple hours, other teams coming by and giving their condolences. It was a sick thing that we allowed this to happen, and I swear we never will again.

Godspeed Mr. Gould.

Godspeed.