Trackside

Goodbye

You're history.

___

"Don't take it personally, kid. You're history, but history that'll be remembered."

That's what they'd said. That's what he'd been told and expected to drive away from.

It was early, just a little after five in the morning. The only source of light came from his own headlights, which seemed dim in the pouring rain. He looked up at the sky as a clap of thunder rolled, bouncing off the mountainsides. The reflection of his mood within the weather was painfully ironic.

Slowly, he began to drive through town. He'd packed only a few of his belongings - his Piston Cups, some old newspapers, and a couple video reels. He didn't need anything else. Those alone would be enough to keep him from wanting to return.

He passed Smokey's garage, and considered saying goodbye. If there was anyone left he could trust, it was his former crew chief, the only one that fought back against the officials beside him. Hud slowed to a stop in the middle of the road, coming to rest in a puddle that became muddied as his tires touched it.

No. Smokey would try and convince him to stay. And if he stayed, he'd have to live in a world with a culture that worshiped the very entity that had betrayed him. Smokey may be on his side, but he'd never truly understand.

Just outside town, the speedway towered, glowing a ghostly white in the black night. Hud found himself being drawn towards it, as if a part of his spirit was calling to him from within. The smell of rain-washed dirt wafted up as he inhaled the cool air. He felt a sense of urgency, an adrenaline-like response to the stadium. For a second he closed his eyes.

The rush of the wind passed over his hood. It was a sunny day and he was well on his way to winning his fourth championship. The crowd was cheering him on. He was determined. But then everything fizzled like static on the radio and he felt himself flip over, and over, and over again. The pain was real enough to jolt him alert.

Again he was back, sitting in the rain, but he found that he'd moved. He was now sitting on the track, right in front of the finish line. He hadn't seen the old piece of rope in months. He hadn't touched it in even longer.

He reached forward to touch it, to let his tire roll over it just one last time, but found himself holding back.

No. This was not for him. He wasn't welcome here anymore. He kicked up mud as he drove around the finish line and back out of the stadium. There was no fighting the way he felt. The tears weren't going to be repressed.

One more time he stopped to look back at the town that had both given and taken everything from him. His tears intermingled with the raindrops on his hood and ran down his fenders. Another boom echoed through the sky as he turned and slowly, but steadily drove off into the night. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do, but anything had to be better than this.