A prominent overhanging stereotype exists in the world of street racing. “The car makes the man” is the famous saying. Another way of putting it would be “What’s under the hood is what’s under his pants”. The more power your engine provides is equal to the amount of constitution the driver has to push his gas pedal. I’ve always been a non-conformist, so I had to disagree with that. You can put a kitten in a Ferrari, and you can put Richard Petty in a station wagon, which do you think will move? The wood doesn’t craft the carpenter, the carpenter crafts the wood. A potter is still a potter if he doesn’t have clay. The tools can’t be the only thing that separates us from apes. There’s also the point where skill and determination meet. Is there a place where a person can learn all they can about a particular trade or profession? Is there a plateau that everyone is able to get to, and the only way to rise above that level is to abandon reason and control? These questions stormed in my mind as I watched my three acquaintances roll up to the red light on the corner of Spring and Jefferson.
I was the first that had pulled up to the light. I heard the three of them all putting their cars in neutral and revving there engines all the way to the red. It reminded me of male peacocks pruning themselves before they went on display. I guess there was some use in this display of noise, exhaust, and juvenile yelling. When accelerating from a dead stop, it can be an advantage to rev the engine to high rpm’s in neutral so that when you take off and shift into drive, it can transfer all the power directly to the road without having to build up power. Kind of like running in place right before you sprint. Only problem with this attempt at manliness is that our four cars weren’t fast enough for this to matter. To me, it was just wasting gas. Oh well, I did it anyway. The orchestra of our four engines tuned up for the big performance.
It was after midnight. The street lights were our only guide, save the moons reflection off of the Illinois River. There was plenty of vision for a night ride, it felt like a sort of man-made, soulless daytime. I chuckled at how advanced our society had become, only to produce brainless monkeys like us.
In this current stage of my life I was influenced by the accompaniment of anti-depressants. If you know anything about these kinds of drugs, you know that they cut off all emotional highs and lows. You can’t be sad, but you also can’t be happy. Anti-depressants are the alcohol swab sad people use before they inject themselves with the syringe that is today’s world. When I was on them, I was numb to all things Earth, and sometimes that’s what I needed. .
Tonight was Halloween, and the parties were still going. We were just far enough away that the city police had their hands full making sure the drunks didn’t kill anyone other than themselves, and the state cops were well out of the downtown limits. Our path was just on the outskirts of the urban reveling. We would go along Jefferson Street until an underpass and then filter out past some warehouses to an old coal refinery. All of us knew exactly where this race ended.
It seemed like as soon as I flushed out all these floating thoughts and glanced up at the red light, it disappeared. None of us even looked for the bottom one to turn green. We all looked straight ahead down the road and slammed those long pieces of rubber into the carpet. The humming orchestra turned into a storm of thunder. It was the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
My car was the fastest off the line. Compared to the huge heavy steel frames of my three opponents, my ’94 Cougar was light on its feet. First gear is all about straight torque, whoever has the biggest ratio of engine to the weight of the car will lead. We were all spread four-wide down the road; I had no chance of cutting anyone off. I knew my slight lead wouldn’t last past 1st gear.
I hit 35 miles per hour, there was a fraction-of-a-second period of quiet, and we all smashed through to 2nd gear simultaneously. Things had to change, and we had to start steering. Zubin was the best driver by far in our little group. It was a tragedy he didn’t have the assets to purchase a better vehicle. He was somewhat of a mechanic also, so he did what he could to make his ’88 LeSabre move down the road. His superior skill behind the wheel managed to take him to the front of the pack. When he had shifted into second, he was able to pull ahead just slightly of the rest of us and crank his wheel all the way to the right to swerve himself nearly out of control in front of us. Then immediately when his car had picked up more power, he cranked his wheel the other way to correct himself and acquire the lead. His back end swung to the side as all of us were forced to brake and let him pull out in front.
Tires burned, both from Zubin taking off, and us slowing momentarily as to not crash into him. We all three put the pedal to the floor once more and did a follow-the-leader down a hill alongside the river. The street went to a two-lane road before we knew it and as each of us looked down at our speedometers, we felt satisfied to see the results.
I was in last place now, all of us closely packed in a little caravan one-behind-another up and down and around through the city. Endless, empty, dead skyscrapers littered our path. This little caravan was moving at about 95 miles per hour. I was trailing a guy named Lucas at a distance of less than 20 inches. Lucas had always been rich, hence his mint-condition Cadillac. My problem with Lucas was that he didn’t even know how much his car could do. That El Dorado had a legendary engine, the Northstar V8. Lucas had no clue how to handle the thing, and I knew it. Combined with his inability to wield this noblest of metal steeds, Lucas also had a resounding conviction to not so much as scratch this fine looking automobile. This made him easy to pass.
The cougar had one thing going for it, and that was traction. It was low to the ground and had fat rear wheels. This, the fact that it was light, and the V8 made it, well, a true cougar. I waited for a one-lane turnpike and went along the shoulder of my wealthy adversary Lucas. He was too scared to cut me off, not wanting to scratch or possibly wreck his dear father’s luxury sedan. I smiled at him as my hungry cat of a car growled past the El Dorado stuck in the line.
The road went to a four-lane again. Everyone eventually fanned out. The cries and explosions of the Halloween festivities began to die down into the distance. All of our vehicles were riding on top speed now. Whichever could put out enough horses would gallop to the front. This pushed Zubin to the back. Even with his high skill at the wheel, even he couldn’t cut off two people at once. I, along with my greatest opponent Mo flew around Zubin on both his flanks. This stretch of straight road should have given Lucas the time of his life letting open his spectacular cars potential. He didn’t. Lucas was an absolute peon compared to Zubin, and he had quite the problem getting around him.
While Zubin occupied Lucas in the back, I occupied Mo in the front. I had managed a close lead, but Mo began to push me from behind. He slammed his front into my back. It was enough to cream my skull into the unused headrest. Mo drove an old Chevrolet Caprice Classic with the police package. It was a retired cop car. It had all the original steel frames and extra guards, it even had the black and white paint. But, his most defining feature was his huge, six liter beast of an engine, and he knew how to use it. I knew my car had a good engine, but not that good. If my car had the soul of a cougar, then his had the heart of a lion. Mo stepped on it again and slammed himself into the back of me. There was nothing small about his car, and there were a lot of things small about mine. I knew I couldn’t let him pass. If he got a free look on an open straightaway, he would take the lead for sure and I would have a very difficult time getting it back. I kept on scalping his attempts to get around me. We both kept our feet planted, crushing the pedals into the floor.
My mind was sharper than it ever had been. Adrenaline is like Ambrosia for humans. It makes everything in your body work better. Your eyes are clearer, you can run faster, lift more, even your metabolism takes a boost of efficiency. I remember feeling all of this. Every ounce of flesh was on fire. Every vein in my mortal body.
Our cars began to fly. Our feet began to shake. The cries of protest from our ever screaming engines turned into adamant, willful roars of rage as these four chunks of steel and glass with four chunks of kid inside sang down the road.
Mo was just as smart as me. Mo was just as determined too. Mo was equal to me in every way, except that he had a few more horses. The shrieks from a cougar were impressive, but nothing could beat the awesome roar of a lion. Mo caught a chance to pass me. He cranked his wheel first to the right, then hammered it left. I took his bait and swerved right, giving him an open gap to fill with his cop car. He sped up close to me at my side and I’m sure he could see my fist hitting the dash as I glared at him with gritted teeth. He looked at me solemnly. He knew as an absolute truth in his mind that this little battle was won. He had defeated me. There was nothing but a gravel field and a parking lot after we got through this underpass. We looked at each other the entire time as we zoomed through this tunnel. We were equals now, staring into the eyes of the enemy, unblinking. We could tell by the distance of each other to the wall of the tunnel where we should steer. We didn’t take our gaze off the others face. The tunnel’s fluorescent lights made a fantastic show of dazzling sparkles of color bouncing off our soaring vehicles. We were traveling at speeds exceeding 130 miles per hour. A crash at this speed and even Mo’s precious armored cop car would disintegrate.
Both our pedals were at the floor the last time, approaching the opening into the night and onto the gravel pit. He crept away from me in his tremendous beast of a machine. I saw what would happen in my minds eye. I saw five seconds into the future. We would both keep our feet pressed until the gravel, and by the time we were forced to brake, he would have the lead, and I would lose.
My cougar shrieked and his lion roared. We were two kids on the playground screaming into each others face. Our two big cats wrestled. There was no way I could conquer this mighty steed. He pulled out in front. As we neared the gravel pits, the parking lot was in sight, and my end made itself apparent to me.
No. No. I would not lose this fight. As Mo began to brake for the gravel, I kept my foot solid. Everyone knew you didn’t gas it on gravel. Everyone knew I would crash. I didn’t care. I wanted to win. My cars best attribute with its traction right? Maybe I wouldn’t crash, who knows. I could fly across those rocks and bound into the lot a winner, a hero, a legend having tamed the unforgiving gravel pits. I knew that if my hands kept as steady as my foot pressed against the ground, I could get a chance to keep my vehicle straight long enough to plow past Mo. This was my moment. This was chance. This was the trial of my life.
I didn’t gain the lead I would have liked. I had to adjust my grip on the wheel because of it being overly lubricated with my perspiration. I barely made it past Mo before we both slammed into the pits. I had kept my foot to the ground however, and Mo had not. The two kids on the playground were supposed to quiet down when the teacher walks by, but I kept screaming. The two huge cats were supposed to refrain from fighting while the poachers were out, but the cougar was still on fire. Mo joined me in the gnashing of teeth as we felt our cars begin to hover. The sound of flicking thousands of tiny stones was drowned out by the continuous shriek of my noble vehicle. Mo had let off the throttle a bit for control. His mighty engine was no use in this quicksand, he knew that if he floored it, he lost it, so he let off the gas and watched me pull out in front.
As I recall now, I should have just kept steady and gone straight to win this altogether futile show of non-existent manhood. But no, I didn’t want that, I had to finish him off, I had to cut in front of Mo and solidify my presence as the Alpha and the leader. I was a complete retard, but I was a retard with a purpose.
If it wasn’t for my overbearing need and very childish craving for dominance, I probably would have become the victor in this story.
I jerked my wheel back to cover up Mo. I wanted to cut him off one last time to subdue him for the remainder of the eternity that was the last stretch before the end. Not even my precious cougar with all its gripping strength could maintain its grasp on the ground. Not at this speed. Not with my sudden jerk of the wheel. The consequences made themselves known and I had to deal with them. My car swirled into a left side skid and the gravel gave it that ever-present weightless feel. My car kept swirling to the left and I cranked the steering wheel as far as I could to the right, making a dying attempt to rekindle my little show of proving myself. I was an astronaut on the spaceship Chaos. The speed was too great; the force kept sending my car spinning in the opposing direction. My car was now facing backwards.
I had done a 180.
But I was ahead of the pack.
I had forgotten about Lucas and Zubin. Their headlights now blinded me along with Mo’s. I did the only thing I could do. I threw my out-of-control bag of gears into reverse and started pushing. That car had a lot of fire left in it. It roared for the last time throwing itself backward carried mostly by momentum, but even the fastest cars in the world can’t move that well in reverse. I tried though, all the way to the finish I tried. It was a very open field of concrete and gravel so I didn’t have to crane my neck to watch out the back window to steer. I could manage by watching mirrors. This was quite an experience, putting the hammer to the anvil in reverse while being enveloped by three blaring cars, inches away, shining their brights in on me. I had another little staring contest with Mo, we formed straight line with our two cars, me facing backwards. I watched Zubin as he flew around me for the win, his face was not one of triumph, but of awe and inspiration. The other two passed me and finished the race. And I was left to turn around limp into the lot, and check the damage to the inside of my fuming vehicle. The race was over.
As I heard my three friends plummet across the open parking lot to see me, I looked up from examining the inside of car. I looked across the skyline of the smogged city as I shut my hood, and there I noticed the grand finale of the Halloween fireworks. I heard my engine hiss again as I dropped the metal covering into place. I walked over to lean on the passengers side of the exhausted cougar. My three companions were obviously still feeling high just like me, except they were still behind the wheel and felt it necessary to continue their victory donuts in front of me. I was taken up in the show and took it as a compliment to my noble heroism and last-ditch effort to win. I strolled towards them smiling.
My stupid neighbor Lucas. He didn’t have his lights on. As I approached him spinning out and burning his rubber, he didn’t notice me standing there, flew out of his turn and ran over my foot.
Yeah.
He heard it. And everyone came out to see. The top of my shoe had been scraped off. I tore the other half off of my toes. I angled the gnarled piece of shoe and poured a remainder of blood out. As it splattered against the cold concrete a disgusted moan ruptured from the three onlookers. I didn’t make a face or a scream. I just dropped the shoe, looked up to them and spoke.
“This was one wild night.”
