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when an accident or something makes the track dangerous.
    I said that into my camera’s microphone. Then I shut my mouth so I could pick up more of Tim’s commentary.
    â€œAt this part of the race,” Tim said, “a pit stop decision is not as crucial as it becomes toward the end. Everybody has to come in at least once before the end, so even if Sandy comes in under a green flag, she knows most others will have to as well. She’ll regain her place on them. Unless...”
    On the monitor, the cars seemed to move slowly. But that was because the camerapanned the track with them, so the background moved instead. But if the camera were fixed on one spot, the cars would flash by quicker than an eyeblink.
    Tim had paused halfway into his sentence because he too had looked up at the monitor. Sandy darted downward on the track again at the end of a turn.
    â€œShe’s caught his draft!” Tim said. “She’s making it past!”
    Draft. I knew what that was too. The drivers stayed as close behind the leader as they could to stay in the draft of the lead car as it cut through the air. Every car behind had less air to cut through. It could help them go another five miles an hour faster.
    â€œShe’s in third place,” Tim hollered. “And moving into second!”
    Sure enough, she was using the draft of the second-place car to slingshot ahead.
    George Lot had not moved. If he was happy with what was happening, nothing about him showed it.
    This was good stuff. If we could contrast Tim’s excitement with George’sprofessionalism, viewers would love it. I moved my camera back and forth.
    â€œAll right,” Tim said. “From what I can see, here’s the situation. She might have another five laps left on her tires. And maybe seven laps of gasoline. But her pit crew knows the distance better than she does. If they think she’s going to lose a tire, they’ll call her in. But they’ll want to wait as long as possible, hoping for a yellow flag. The worst thing that could happen is to have her come in under a green flag, lose a lap and then two laps later get a yellow so that everyone else can refuel without losing any time.”
    Tim took a deep breath. “Second place,” he said. “This is awesome. If she can keep it there without losing a tire, or a motor, or running into someone else’s accident, or seeing any trouble in the pit...”
    I was beginning to understand why everybody was so keyed up every single second of a three-hour race. Even if Sandy looked like she had it made, there were a hundred things that could go wrong.
    â€œSo now it’s a waiting game,” Tim said. “She’s got to run every lap at this same pace, not a split second less. And she’s got to keep doing it as long as possible, hoping for a yellow, even if it means staying out there on her final six ounces of fuel.”
    Six ounces. Less than a can of soda. And this was in a car that was burning a gallon every two laps.
    I felt a strange excitement. I realized I was getting caught up in the race. I gave myself a mental slap across the face. I couldn’t ever be a good director if I let my emotions get involved with my subject.
    As I forced my excitement to cool down, I glanced back at Tim Becker. His eyes were on the monitor. A red flush covered his face. His voice was growing higher in pitch.
    â€œOkay,” he said, “this is what she has to watch out for as she comes into the pit. If there’s a yellow flag, there will be a traffic jam as thirty cars all come in at once. If it’s a green, she’s got to start slowing down in turn four and drop to the bottom of the track to approach pit road. She’s got to get in and outas fast as possible, but if she’s even a half mile an hour over fifty-five, she’ll break the pit road speed limit, and she’ll get a black flag.”
    Black flag. That means the driver has to return