Lightning's career takes a temporary nosedive in the face of Doc's death.
___
The media called it a slump. Racing analysts across the country questioned if Rusteze's brief stint as a regular championship contender was at an end.
"The brightest stars burn the quickest."
"A broken team with no crew chief cannot mentally compete, and racing is 50% mental endurance."
"McQueen just doesn't have it in him anymore."
No one stopped to acknowledge that the team was still grieving. The news of the death of the Fabulous Hudson Hornet spread like wildfire, eliciting an onset of well-wishes, condolences, and semi-genuine support toward Team Rusteze. But that was four months past. The racing world moves on quickly. Two weeks after the news broke, things were back to normal.
Except they weren't. Nothing had changed. It hurts less to forget and move on, and that's something the ever positive Piston Cup racing series is quite good at. Write down a name and a biography in a history book and move right along. Focus on the now. Focus on the bright side of racing. The Fabulous Hudson Hornet was immortalized, it wasn't like he was really gone.
But the Piston Cup didn't know Doc. They didn't know the car behind the name, that harsh judge, that caring doctor. And Lightning hated it. The one car that meant so much to him, that the sport claimed to have such a connection to, no one else knew him. They forgot him. At will! Instantaneously! Like there wasn't still an empty stand on pit row. Doc was glaringly absent.
Lightning wanted to be frustrated. He wanted to be angry at someone, anyone who had let this happen. But let what happen? Let Doc die? No one saw it coming, except maybe Doc, but they'd never know. Let everyone forget? They'd claim they hadn't forgot, that he'll forever be remembered. They wouldn't understand. Who was "they"? Lightning didn't even know the answer to that.
It had been four months. They'd had plenty of time to regroup. The team was working harder than ever before to compensate for lacking performance. Guido changed tires flawlessly. Fillmore always delivered on fuel. But something was still missing. Lightning knew it was him. His mental game wasn't just skewed, it was nonexistent.
There's something inherent in nature itself that when your environment changes, you change, too. You have to adapt. It's law. Whether you like it or not, you evolve to fit the world around you. And Lightning had fought this for four long, long months. That silence on the radio, only broken with occasional factual, emotionless updates regarding tire pressure, fuel mileage, and pit sequence was killing him. He needed something more. He needed someone to jest at him when he made a mistake, someone to bad mouth the other racers as they screwed up around him. He needed Doc.
California. It happened at Los Angeles, on a day that almost mirrored the day the tiebreaker race took place. Bright, abundant sunshine, not too warm. It was beautiful. The atmosphere placed Lightning at unusual ease as the team arrived and unpacked in the garages. There was something familiar on the breeze that day, like Doc was there.
"You ready, Stickers?"
He turned and looked at Sally. He smiled, she offered one in return.
"Ready as I'll ever be," he replied.
Sally's soft smile faltered. Some days were better than others, they both experienced them. The tone in his voice, the flitting of his gaze said more than his lie of a response.
"What's wrong?"
She asked the question like she didn't already know the answer. At this point, it was almost routine, and honestly, she didn't expect a great answer. Another lie, another half truth, maybe.
But Lightning's gaze fell. He looked around the garage stall and those next to him. They were empty, for now.
"This was where he showed up first, y'know?" he gestured at the space around him. "This track. After I fixed the road, after they found me and brought me to race in the tiebreaker. Doc drove all the way out here to - "
He stopped. She knew what he meant. A few heavy moments of silence passed.
"But, yeah, I better go to the pits, get ready," he muttered quietly, turning to exit the bay.
"Wait a second, there," Sally stopped him before he'd moved more than a few inches.
"Sal, they're calling the racers, I gotta - "
"Why did Doc decide to come out here, huh?" she pressed.
"Well, you know..." his sentence trailed into a non-answer. "You were there when he made the decision, not me."
"Tell me, Lightning," her voice softened. "Why?"
He shrugged. "He just decided to come back. I guess he changed his mind."
Sally nodded a little and sighed. She knew she wasn't going to get the words out of him that she wanted.
"Yeah," she agreed. "Doc forgave them, you know? He saw they all weren't bad. He saw it in you."
"What are you saying, Sally?"
"I'm saying that you need to do the same," she explained as gently as she could in such a loud, bustling environment. "What happened to Doc wasn't anyone's fault, you know that. It's not easy, and I don't expect you to change overnight. I wouldn't want you to. But... Doc would want you to be happy, to keep racing at your best. He forgave them - he came all that way to support you. And he might not be here right now, but don't tell me you can't feel it, too."
He looked up at her. Her words stung. They always did. She always spoke the logical truth, bringing to the light the things he'd rather stay hidden. But yes, he did feel it. It wasn't just an uncanny coincidence of the weather and location. Doc was there, somehow, some way.
"I know, Sal, I'm workin' on it," he said. "Guess I'm just not good at these things."
"No one is. And that's okay."
She gave him a soft nudge in the fender. He returned in kind and looked again toward the track.
"Now," Sally's voice changed into something more productive, more motivating. "You've got a race to go run. Can you try something for me?"
"What?"
"Run this race for Doc, not in spite of his absence. I want to see you in that winner's circle making a dedication speech to him here in a couple hours, alright?"
"Heh, alright," he brushed it off without bothering to give it a second thought. "I'll see you after. Love you."
"Love you more. Be safe!"
Lightning immediately felt himself fall into the same routine of thinking, the same emotions that plagued him every race. That stand was still empty. The radio was still silent. And still, no one noticed.
He forgave them. How could he do that? They'd kicked him out on the spot. Doc had now been forgotten twice, he –
He forgave them.
The persistent breeze lost itself in the roar of engines on the pace laps. Lightning's concentration went with it. The lights on the pace car were off, he'd have to focus on not spinning his tires, getting around the cars in front of him. He'd have to do anything but think about -
I didn't come all this way to see you quit.
The sudden memory jolted him from his repetitious daze. He looked around. Half a turn left. He could see the restart zone, the flagger getting ready to wave that green.
Doc drove from Radiator Springs to Los Angeles overnight after a sudden change of heart to help him. He'd just up and forgiven the racing world for what it had done to him. Because what did it matter? He was still a champion. He could still coach. He was a legend, and nothing would change that. Doc didn't need the Piston Cup to tell him who he was and who he wasn't. The Piston Cup didn't know him. They didn't need to.
Sally was right. Doc didn't spend those last couple years of his life teaching Lightning everything he knew just to see him lose his edge after a setback. Death might have taken Doc, but it couldn't take everything that Doc had done for Lightning. And Doc had taught him about a whole lot more than just racing.
Run this race for Doc.
And he did.