Page 40 of The Big Race
As they walked away, Ray leaned close to my ear. "Did we just get played?"
I watched Gemini and Blaine's retreating figures, noting how their casual chatter resumed the moment they thought they wereout of earshot. "I think we just got thoroughly scouted," I said quietly. "Those two are a lot sharper than they let on."
"Great," Ray muttered. "So much for Southern hospitality."
The flight to Caracas was uneventful, though the competition's undercurrents were palpable throughout the cabin. Upon landing, we all raced through customs and toward the rental car counters.
At the Hertz counter, the agent looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, we only have manual transmission vehicles available today. All the automatics are rented."
Ray and I exchanged glances. “Can you manage?" I asked. “I haven’t driven a stick in twenty years.”
"Been a while for me, too," Ray said to me. "I’ll give it a try. You navigate."
Several teams around us groaned. Blaine said confidently, “Good thing my daddy has a bunch of stick-shift trucks on the farm.”
We quickly completed the paperwork while other teams debated their options. "This could work in our favor," I said as we located our small white sedan in the parking garage. "Half these teams probably can't drive stick."
Ray settled into the driver's seat and immediately stalled the engine trying to reverse out of the parking space. "Okay, rustier than I thought," he admitted, his face flushing slightly.
"Take your time," I said, spreading the map across my lap. I noticed Cody turning in the front seat to focus on me. "Henri Pittier is about two hours west of here, near the coast. We need to get on the autopista toward Valencia, then take Route 1 north toward the park."
Ray tried again, this time letting the clutch out more slowly. The car lurched back but didn't stall. "There we go. Which way out of here?"
"Follow the signs for Autopista Regional del Centro," I said, studying the airport layout. "That'll get us onto the main highway."
As we navigated out of the airport, I saw other teams struggling in the parking garage. Alex was behind the wheel of a blue compact, grinding the gears as Ross tried to give encouragement from the back seat.
"Left here," I directed as we approached the highway entrance. "Then merge onto the autopista heading west."
Ray downshifted for the on-ramp, the engine revving as he found the right gear. "Not exactly like riding a bike, is it?"
"You're doing fine. Just remember to use the clutch when you shift."
The highway led us through the crowded city streets and urban sprawl of Caracas, where Ray had to focus on shifting gears as the traffic started and stopped. The road finally opened up as we left the sprawling outskirts of Caracas behind, cutting through Venezuela's coastal mountains toward Henri Pittier.
The scenery transformed dramatically – lush green hills rising on both sides, dense cloud forest clinging to the mountainsides. But Ray was too focused on managing the clutch and gears on these winding mountain roads to appreciate the view.
"According to this map, we stay on this highway for about an hour, then take the exit for Maracay," I said. "After that, it gets more complicated – smaller roads winding up into the mountains."
Ray nodded, settling into fifth gear as traffic thinned out. "How far behind do you think the other teams are?"
I glanced in the side mirror. "Hard to say. Some of them might still be figuring out how to get their cars out of the parking garage."
As we drove deeper into Venezuela's interior, the road began to climb into the foothills of the Cordillera de la Costa. Ray downshifted for the steeper grades, the engine working harder in the thin mountain air. He had to concentrate to keep from stalling.
"Exit coming up," I warned, checking the map. "Route 1 toward Choroní and the national park."
Ray took the exit, immediately encountering a much narrower road that wound through coffee plantations and small villages. He had to shift constantly as we climbed and descended the rolling hills. It probably was even harder for him knowing that Cody was filming his every mistake.
"This is definitely more challenging than the highway," he said, gripping the steering wheel as we navigated a particularly tight curve.
"You're doing great. Just another thirty kilometers according to this sign."
The road became increasingly rural, with potholes that forced Ray to slow down and carefully maneuver around them. Occasionally we'd get stuck behind a heavily loaded truck crawling up a steep grade, forcing Ray to downshift to first gear.
"There!" I pointed ahead as we crested a hill. "Henri Pittier National Park – Venezuela's oldest national park. Founded in 1937."
"Where's the ranger station?"
