Henry's Car

Part 1

“God’s body man, giveth me the 4th gear! Now!”

“Fucking press the damned clutch you madman!” I shouted back over the reverberating din of the V8 Chevy block, attempting some humility and knowing ‘damned’ was the only swear-word King Henry VIII would actually acknowledge.

The large pallid face broke into a toothy grin. “Raymond. You are an impertinent, what is the modern phrase, jackass, but I like you!” His big foot, somewhat incongruously contained in a size 14 Nike trainer, pressed clumsily down on the accelerator and I slammed the gearstick into 4th. A moment later, the King, hunched over the royal Sparco steering wheel, turned the car to the left. As dirt spurting from the drifting rear wheels, we emerged from the turn, I realised we were actually going to finish in third place. Not yet a win but for a man new, not only to the sport but to the century, it was not a bad effort. Henry roared his approval as we crossed the line.

***

Ah, the memory of it is a delight to me even now. It all seemed like a dream until I saw the article in the The Richmond and Twickenham Times: Archeologists in Richmond dig unearth mysterious ‘fuel can.’

At once I was engrossed and read on.

Archeologists digging up a 16th Century hunting lodge are mystified by a fuel-can buried in the mud below the remains of the floorboards. Barry Deancliff had the following to say to reporters last night:

“It is most reminiscent of refueling cans used in stock car racing in the 20th century. Moreover it has been carbon-dated and appears to be 400 years old, give or take. I am completely mystified!”

I checked the paper every day after that for months but there was never another mention of the mysterious refueling-can. A letter to the British museum elicited the following curt reply: “Professor Barry Deancliff’s team will be spending many years analyzing the finds from the dig and as yet, he has no further comment to make about this particular item.” Eventually it seemed to have been buried: an awkward item that simply did not fit the picture the esteemed museum was looking for.

Racing has always been in my blood, my father being an engineer on Grand Prix cars in the 1990s, before children made him settle for a more mundane job. The thrill of it never left him though and we would often stand in the rain for hours at Silverstone watching the Formula 1 cars screaming past. Now I raced cars for a hobby in the Muscle-car Stock class all around England at weekends.

This particular New Year’s day, it really seemed as if nothing could possibly happen to me. Most of my friends were visiting parents, an obligation I had already fulfilled on Christmas day, or they were slumped, lifeless in front of their 3-d screen. I despondently checked the listings for anything that might interest me. My mobile vibrated on the table.

“Hi Dave. Good to hear from somebody. Fancy a drink?”

“Listen Ray. I forgot I have two tickets to the banger racing at Wimbledon Stadium. I didn’t think I would be going but now my sister’s ill and so Don thinks it’s better if I leave it a few days. So I am going. You wanna come?”

“Banger racing! Ha! Ha! It’s not really my thing but what the hell! It’s better than brain-death in front of the 3-D. Okay. You pick me up?”

“Sure.”

The banger racing was a hoot! We both chose cars, based on their form in the two-page guide we bought on the styles.

“I won again! That’s it Dave. That was the last race and I have the most points. Your round I believe?”

“Ha! Ha! Okay. Let’s go. It’s getting pretty parky anyway.”

                                                                                ***

What do you think? Funny Eh! I will add more later

VOTE

COMMENT

FAN