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needed several cameras for those. Brian Nelson was still too sickto work. Margaret Lynn, though, was fine. So even though we couldn’t shoot using the two-angle method, Uncle Mike decided to go ahead with Ken Takarura’s interview with Sandy Peterson.
    He chose to interview Sandy in one of the motor homes. The backdrop was a simple black sheet. Sandy wore jeans and a light blue polo shirt. Uncle Mike wanted her to look pretty, but not too feminine, and together they had decided the light blue would do the trick.
    I intended to keep my camera running the whole time.
    Sandy sat on a cane-backed chair with Ken Takarura beside her. He wasn’t in the best shape. We hid the sick whiteness of his face with good lighting and lots of stage makeup. I had a bottle of fizzy water for him to drink off-camera between his questions.
    I didn’t feel so great either. But I knew the deadline was too important to miss, and if Uncle Mike could force himself to work, so could I.
    Not that this was something I would call work.
    I was having fun.
    Ken began the interview by paying Sandy some compliments. He wanted her to be relaxed so that he could catch her off guard with a tough question. Hopefully, she would be surprised and it would show on camera. Later, we would cut out the first part, so that at the beginning, viewers saw only the question and her answer.
    â€œYes,” Ken was saying in his deep voice. “At those speeds, the slightest mistake will put you out of the race. You need total concentration on the track, don’t you?”
    â€œMore than total,” Sandy answered. She smiled. I was watching the television monitor hooked up to the camera. With her blond hair and soft features, she was interesting to watch. Especially with what she did for a living. “Ken, you can’t let your lap times be more than a tenth of a second off your pace. Think of it. A typical race is four hundred laps. If you lose a tenth of a second every third or fourth lap, that’s...”
    She bit her front lip as she paused to do her math. I was doing it at the same time. Say every fourth lap equals one hundred laps. Then one hundred times a tenth of a second would be...
    â€œTen seconds,” she said. “That may not sound like much, but in ten seconds at the speeds we travel, that might put you back by a half lap by the end of the race. I can’t tell you how many races are lost by the length of a car.”
    She smiled into the camera again. “And Ken, it’s not just the time you have to worry about. You need to keep your concentration focused, because if you daydream for a heartbeat, or blink at the wrong time, you can hit the wall or another car. It’s not like driving through town to pick up groceries.”
    Ken nodded. I knew he was about to spring the question that Uncle Mike had planned. And this was probably the best time.
    â€œThat brings me to something else,” Ken said. “Aren’t you afraid of dying?”
    The question hung there. How many people, after all, like to talk about their own death?
    â€œFunny you should ask,” she said. The camera caught every twitch of every muscle on her face. We had expected to surprise her, but her face looked calm. “I think about dying every time I get behind the wheel.”
    â€œDo other drivers?” Ken asked.
    â€œI can’t speak for other drivers,” she said.
    Great answer, I thought. She was a pro at interviews.
    â€œBut for yourself...” Ken was a pro too.
    â€œFor myself,” she answered, “I’m ready to die. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to. At least not before I have to.”
    Another smile. “There’s this saying: ‘Don’t do the crime, if you can’t do the time.’ In other words, be sure you’re ready for the price you’ll have to pay if you get caught.”
    â€œInteresting...,” Ken said.
    â€œWhen I get into a racecar,” she