A number of teams, covering the gambit of motorsport from circuit racing to rallying, called the Oxfordshire town home. With convenient motorway access, close proximity to a handful of tracks and reasonable rents, it made sense to establish a home there instead of anchoring a team to one particular circuit. My reason for going to Rags wasn’t just to get Dylan a job and make him my inside man. I needed to make peace with Rags. I hoped that the couple of days since Spa would have mellowed him and he would have gotten over the shock of my police problems. It didn’t sound like he’d mellowed all that much when I’d called him to let him know I was coming. I definitely wasn’t going to mention being picked up for drug possession. I parked in one of the Ragged Racing-only spots in front of the warehouse that served as all things Ragged Racing. We got out of the car and walked over to the entrance. ‘Do you think this is going to work?’ Dylan asked. ‘God knows with the way my luck is going.’ ‘Defeatism.
