Drag Race

Race

            On the salt flats the crowd cheered, the wind blew, all the noises isolated by the racer’s thin Plexiglas windshield. On both sides he could see the fans leaning over the makeshift fence waving and shouting. His family was among them. He could see his beautiful wife and two lovely daughters cheering specifically for him. He smiled, but couldn’t keep the butterflies from his stomach. Cars were lined up beside before and behind him, all of them waiting in anticipation like him. His entire vehicle shook, as if begging to leap forward and win.

            Keeping his left hand tight on the steering wheel, he reached for the shifter. The round orb vibrated in his hand. He could feel the power of the transmission through the stick. He found that his breathing had increased. He couldn’t wait to start the race. Every bone in his body wanted to gun it immediately.

            On deck was the man with the flags. He was holding the green one like a tease. Soon. The stage colors came out. The racer smiled, stomping on the clutch and throwing the shifter into first gear. His foot tapped the accelerator a few times in anticipation. The rpm needle jumped each time and his car whined for more. Around him he heard the other cars revving through the Plexiglas. The flags came down one by one. A bead of sweat dripped down the racer’s face. He looked to the car next to him. Under the helmet and visor, his fellow racer’s gaze was glued on the flags. The racer returned his own attention there.

            Green. The racer’s foot came down on the gas like an anvil and his other foot flew off the clutch. His car cringed and leapt forward with a screech. The racer’s stomach turned inside out and his hands tingled at the wheel. He thought he was giggling like a giddy four year old at an amusement park. Everything went into tunnel vision. The other cars battled around him, and he couldn’t see the painted red lines marking the edge of the track. It didn’t matter, right now all he needed to do was stick with the mass of cars until they broke up. He drove the shifter back into second gear without so much as taking his foot off the gas. No clutching; it took too much time. The cars ahead of him were banking left. The racer did the same without slowing down. He kept his foot floored, speeding ever faster. Third gear. Fourth. The cars banked right, kicking up a plume of white salt dust as the tires dug at the desert’s smooth surface.

            The pack was beginning to thin out, and the racer could see the wide lane marked by the red paint as it whizzed past him. All else was white for miles. On the horizon he could barely make out a dark mountain range. He could see there were six cars ahead of him. He’d have to overtake them if he wanted to win. His foot was to the floor and he wasn’t getting any speed. His speedometer read a hundred fifty. He slammed the transmission into fifth and got up to two hundred. Sixth. Two twenty. He blew past three of the cars and a sign warning of a sharp right coming up.

The racer turned the wheel as the track began the corner, but it came up on him too fast. He cranked the wheel and drifted the corner, barely managing to stay in the lane. Straining against the G force, he clutched and took the car into fourth gear. It lurched forward into the next straight. He could barely see out his window on account of the dust. He turned on his windshield wiper to clean it off. There were still three cars ahead of him. A slight right was coming up. He took it expertly and caught one of the cars on the inside. Only two left and he’d be in first place.

Coming up on one of the cars fast, he tried to get around, but they swerved to stop him. Agitated, he braked hard to keep from hitting them, banking left to try and get around. They swerved again. A left turn.

Both cars drifted the turn, but the racer didn’t brake. He accelerated, blowing past the other driver on the outside. Only one more car. The racer could feel his car bumping and rocking on the salt. His steering wheel rebelled against him in his hands, but he strained to keep it in check, up shifting and taking the next turn in unison with the first place car. That’s when he realized where they were. Almost to the finish line.

He could see a mass of people a few miles ahead, shimmering in the heat. He had to make it there in first. Right now he was barely riding at the first place racer’s tale end. He could make it past if he could muster up the power. The only problem was this was the last straightaway. Everyone would be maxing out their vehicles. His own skill had gotten him this far. Now it was time to rely on the car he’d worked on for so long. Could his car take him to the lead? He vowed to find out, stomping on the gas and upshifting into sixth.

He and the first place driver were nose to nose now, the finish drawing ever nearer. He could do it, but his foot was to the floor. His car had nothing left.

“Come on!” He roared, pouring his heart and soul into willing his car to go faster. He had to win. He was so close! The salt ran underneath his wheels at two hundred and forty three miles an hour. His competition kept right at his side. They exchanged glances every couple of seconds, knowing they were tied. One of them had to win, but there wasn’t much either could do about it. They were almost to the end. In desperation, the driver spun his wheel and swerved into the other racer, knocking him off course and taking the lead. Ten seconds later, he was across the finish line, past the cheering people and deploying his dragnet. He could feel his car being drug down by the wind. He’d be leaning way forward against the force if his seatbelt would let him. He felt like he could puke. He felt like he could jump for joy. He felt like he’d won his drag race on the salt flats.