As the last rays of the scorching sun retreat behind the Western stand, piercing floodlights bathe the track in a clinical, over-bright light. Drumming my fingers on the wheel of the lowrider, I feel my knobbly knee bounce in an erratic motion.
“What am I doing here?” I ask myself again. Even good people do bad things to win; this would be no different.
Oh, it’s never their fault on paper.
“The trauma killed them,” they say. “Incineration. Spinal damage.”
But I saw them press the accelerator down, give that final nudge, send the gilded coffins of steel, fibreglass and rubber into the death spiral. One of the kids enters a government racer. The rest wait for him.
I wonder about his parents. Oh, they would never ask. Perhaps they protested, something to the tune of “We’ll be fine… we’ll get by.”
Perhaps he feels the creep of some cold glaucoma dimming away their world. Myself? I had watched as drought slowly dried up our meagre patch of land. Mother and Father had gone soon after, and the chill of it was their final gift.
Glancing up at last year’s winners, sprawled on their feathered couches, sipping cool beverages and giggling, my nose wrinkled at the sudden bad smell. Again, I was there. Tightening my grip on the slippery leather wheel. Accelerating the all-consuming beat of my pulse.
“Included. Start! Your! Engines!” booms a voice as slick as silk, sending the rowdy masses into a drunken melee.
I watch as they punch in their ignition code, the cockpits vibrate as the engines roar to life. From the confines of my lowrider, I remain separate from their struggle.
Besides, all my friends know the lowrider. The lowrider is a little higher. Lowrider drives a little slower. Lowrider is a real goer. Lowrider knows every street, yeah. Lowrider is the one to meet, yeah. Lowrider don’t use no gas now. Lowrider don’t drive too fast. Take a little trip, take a little trip, take a little trip and see. Take a little trip, take a little trip, take a little trip with me. Fuck!
They hurtle forwards. Corners blur into straights. Tyre smoke hangs over the track, I lean out my window and take a sniff. Mmm… smells good. The guttural howl of millions imbues me with adrenaline. I yank my wheel around and cruise onto the track. I round the turn and accelerate out of it. The boy driving the monstrosity ahead of me has tried to take the corner too quickly, that much is clear. His massive car is fishtailing, swinging from side to side as he desperately struggles with the wheel.
My world slows, my eyes darting from side to side, struggling to process the carnage before me; pieces of his rear fender strewn across the narrow track, shredded rubber fluttering, caught in the long skid mark leading towards the wallowing vehicle. With less than a few dozen metres between us there Is no way I can pass him. Two options: brake or accelerate. Lose or win.
My left hand reaches to tug at my hair; it would normally skittle uselessly off the glassy surface of a helmet. I’ve never understood why they make us wear the wretched things – another illusion of safety. Feeling the wind bite at my exposed skin, I reach up with a numb hand and feel my fingertips graze my lips. Higher; past the red nose, through the residual wetness on my upper cheeks, to hover in front of my blood shot eyes. I stare at my hands for several moments searching for some sign of change. Like everything, everyone else, they are indifferent to my unwavering gaze, to the stillness that has settled on me since the race. I should’ve signed up. It would have been a better life, in spite of being tainted, soured with the memory of sending a boy into the death spiral.
