Foreword

      I like to win.

      As a kid, growing up in Canada, I knew I was born to race. I love to compete, I love to go fast, I love to say “yes” to life. And I was willing to do whatever it took to go full speed ahead toward my goal of competing in the Indianapolis 500.

      Eight years of passion and persistence made my debut in the Indianapolis 500 in 2011 possible. Life was moving fast: I was recognized as the IndyCar Series Rookie of the Year. In 2012, I was voted Favorite Driver by IndyCar Series fans. Open‐wheel racing was my new home. I was living my dream life at 230 miles per hour. I started 2015 with a new team. We won the Grand Prix of New Orleans in only our second race together. Things were going great. In May of that year, I was driving at Indianapolis once again. Race day at the Indy 500 was in my sights.

      Until I came around turn number three.

      That practice day started out like any other. The sun was shining, the track was clear, and I was working to perfect my car for the “greatest spectacle in racing.” There was some light traffic and I was running behind a driver by the name of Montoya. I came into turn three at about 225 miles per hour. What happened next no one could have predicted.

      In my business, I work hard to maintain perfection. To keep control. To make sure that I'm doing everything I can to keep that car going where I want it to go. But, in spite of my best efforts, something happened in the turn. Something beyond my control.

I don't remember exactly what transpired. The video shows that I was conscious after the crash, but I don't remember being in the car and bobbing my head as the crumpled chassis lay crushed on the pavement while the rescue crews came onto the track to pull me from the car. I learned about my new normal when I woke up in the hospital. I was hooked to machines and surrounded by family, friends, and doctors. I couldn't speak because of the tube down my throat. I had to communicate with a pen and a piece of paper. They told me what happened. And then I watched the videos.

      In an instant, a piece of the suspension broke and pierced the chassis, sending me into the retaining wall. The accident was a mechanical failure. Probably some metallurgical issue that happened six months ago – who knows? – when the suspension was built 4,000 miles away from Indianapolis Motor Speedway. When the suspension failed, the car careened into the wall, forcing a metal shaft into my right thigh and striking my femoral artery on its way out of my left side. The piece that impaled me (that's a weird word to write about yourself) was connected to the car. Basically, I was a shish kebab.

      In order to pull me out, they had to remove the metal shaft from my body – leaving a hole that my doctor said was big enough for him to insert his whole fist inside. Luckily, Indiana University Methodist Hospital was just a four‐minute drive away – the police cleared the streets and the ambulance drivers told me they made it in 2:47. Not only was their speed impressive, it probably saved my life.

      I had two complete blood transfusions before I even went into the operating room. My heart stopped. The doctors thought I would code before they could even get me into surgery.

      Hey, let me stop for a minute. This isn't a foreword about an injury: it's a foreword about a recovery. Because that's what Karen's book is all about.

      I realized that the only response to a setback is a comeback. If you're holding this book, right now, you know that's true. You're interested in getting back on track.

What's the fastest way to get back into a race car? I asked my doctor. He told me the thing I couldn't stand to hear: Do nothing. Can you imagine going from 230 miles per hour in your day job to an absolute standstill? To put it mildly: I didn't like it. But I did it. If I was going to do nothing, I was going to do nothing better than anybody. That's just how I'm wired.

      Soon, my doctor told me I could try to walk again (yes, that's right: I had to be allowed to walk). That first day, they said I could only take a maximum – a maximum – of 600 steps. I listened to the five words I never want to hear: “You have to start slow.”

      Soon