Race Night

About a street race

    The sky slowly fell dark as the 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner saw its driver coming down the steps to the driveway. The car began to get excited as the driver drew near. Friday nights in the summer were always the car's favorite time. That meant race night. Roadrunner felt his door open and rocked as 175 pounds of Driver sat down.
    The key entered the ignition switch, making sweet love to it. Driver pumped Roadrunner's gas pedal twice then pushed it to the floorboards. Roadrunner felt his starter surge with electricity. The starter motor whined for a split second before his engine thundered it's awakening to the whole neighborhood. The car refused to feel bad about it's inefficient gas engine devouring gallons of fuel at a time. This was living. "Ok, car," said the driver, "Let's go make us some money." A smile crept it's way across Roadrunner's grill.
    The obnoxiously loud car exploded onto the highway without a care in the world. This was what he was made for. The feel of the asphalt beneath his tires. The pounding of 425 brake horsepower shooting down his drive shaft. The feel of the wind on his headlights. The shocked and disapproving looks he got from the minivans and hybrids as he flew past them. They could never understand. This was race night. "Driver," he thought, "Don't hold me back. Put that foot down."
    The warm night air felt good on his windshield as the city lights reflected off his flawlessly restored empress blue paint and chromed rally wheels. His weight shifted almost effortlessly against the suspension as he held onto the curvy contours of the road. Almost there.
    Stopped for a red light, Roadrunner looked at the car next to him. A nice little Toyota Supra. "Not bad," he thought, as she revved to get his attention. The smile wide on his well polished grill, he checked out the cherry red paint she was wearing. He revved his motor back, having fun flirting. He never really went for the foreign girls, though. His heart was reserved for another. The race. Only ever the race. That's what he loved. The light turned green and the Supra winked before turning away. "Probably going to that strip mall where all the Japanese cars tend to end up," he mused.
    Gleefully Roadrunner turned into the cruise-in burger joint where all the muscle car street racers met. Slowly he crept through the parking lot, taking in all the cars that had arrived already. He loved being fashionably late. He loved making everyone else look as his exhaust made a deep, throaty growl while he rumbled his way past all the different clicks.
    There were Chevy's, staring at him like they thought he was going to try something. The Ford's playfully joked among themselves. They always seemed like pretty good guys. There were even some Pontiacs here tonight, this was a decent turnout. He rumbled into a spot near some of his Mopar acquaintances. They were buddies, but there was no illusion on that front. When two cars lined up, there was no such thing as friends. Only the race. Always, only the race.
    It always seemed to happen the same way every Friday night. Driver got out and went to go talk to some of the other people for awhile. Then, just as Roadrunner would begin to think that he was cooling down a bit too much, Driver would come back. Roadrunner always got excited, knowing that it meant it was his turn. The race had been set up. Driver got into the cab of the car, settling into the blue and white leather seat.
    Once again the key made love to the ignition switch. Once again his engine roared to consciousness, causing heads to swivel in his direction. Driver slowly piloted the way out to the street, pumping the gas and causing the engine to bellow out a war cry that could be heard for blocks. As he stepped up to the starting line he felt his front breaks clamp down. Driver began to slowly idle up the RPM's until the rear tires broke loose and began to spin. The loud screaming of the rubber peeling off onto the asphalt caused a cloud of white smoke to pour off of them. Then, he idled, waiting. Who would he be annihilating tonight? A challenge, he hoped. Maybe that 442 he saw when he came in. The yellow one with a big block. That'd be pretty sweet. Roadrunner got tired of the usual diet of Camaros and Mustangs he was regularly fed. Tonight he hoped for a something a little different. Then his competitor rolled up to the line.
    What the hell was this? A small block Monza? Oh, come on, now! He heard the Monza rev up and belch a cackle through the exhaust. "Glasspacks? You've gotta be kidding me!" He thought, a little annoyed with Driver. "This is what you bring me? Easy money is easy money, but let's not get carried away." Maybe there'd be time for another race with a real competitor. Whatever, a race was a race, and Roadrunner didn't lose.
    He saw the pretty girl sashay through the crowd of onlookers to stand in between the cars. Roadrunner always thought it was so strange how humans had such long legs but were so slow. The girl turned and raised both hands into the air. He brought his RPM's up in anticipation. There would be no quarter here, unfair race or not. He glanced over at the little Monza next to him. This kid was not ready. The Monza didn't even know enough to be nervous. Roadrunner was guaranteed to eat this punk alive.
    Then the girls hands dropped and Driver shoved the accelerator down with his foot. Time slowed as the air and fuel was thrust into the cylinders to die it's fiery death, creating power. Tires broke loose and spun wildly on the pavement. Girls on the sidelines plugged their ears to numb the deafening sound of so many horses shooting pure, unadulterated power from the intake through to the exhaust. The tires hooked up on the street and Roadrunner did his thing.
    The car lurched forward like a rocket trying to break the atmosphere. It took less than a moment for everyone to know just how unbalanced this pairing of racers had been. The Monza seemed almost like it wasn't even trying to get off the line. Roadrunner knew it would be like this. Only a few seconds had passed and he was already several lengths ahead. This was just plain too easy. "Oh, well," he mused to himself. "No reason not to give them a show anyway."
    The world went silent. All Roadrunner was aware of was the swooshing of the air as it glided by, cut in half by two tons of Detroit steel. A madman's grin flashing across his grill, Roadrunner pushed even harder. Not for the crowd, but for the sheer, maniacal joy of speed. Looking in his rear view, Roadrunner smiled as the Monza was quickly becoming an indiscernible dot in the distance. The race was all that existed. The race was all that was needed. This must be what heaven feels like.
    The shock of the initial pain was almost lost on Roadrunner as the nail pierced the vulcanized rubber of his passenger side front tire. He nearly didn't even notice for a split second until the disastrous, inevitable blowout jerked him violently to the right. The metal of the rim scraped grooves in the pavement with a demonic sound not entirely unlike that of nails on a chalkboard. He saw the curb coming towards him in slow motion. The impact of steel on asphalt shattered the curb into a thousand tiny shards as the inertia shot the car straight through it. Though his strut snapped from the impact causing the wheel to impotently flop back and forth, it did little to slow his forward momentum. The wheel dug it's way into the dirt beyond the curb, and Roadrunner watched helplessly as the world turned end over end. Sheet metal, plastic, and glass shot through the air to litter the surrounding ground. Over and over Roadrunner tumbled and rolled finally coming to rest with the rubber side up.
    He heard Driver groan for a moment before hitting the release switch on the five point harness restraining him to the seat. He saw Driver unceremoniously land on his head in a wad on what a moment ago had been the roof of the cab. He barely heard the footsteps of the crowd running toward him as Driver kicked the door several times to get it to pop open. The Monza sped by on the street a couple dozen yards away, seeming so much faster than he had before. Roadrunner had lost. Truly lost. He began to sob as he realized he was totaled. His racing days were over.
    Roadrunner sat in the junkyard, twisted and broken. His days were spent staring out at all the other wrecks. All of them had stories to tell, but none did. He didn't tell his, either. There was nothing to talk about now. There had just been the race. Only the race. But now, there was nothing. He had no reason to live anymore. No way to go fast. He couldn't feel the asphalt passing below his body with an obscene blur. No more air swooshing past his windshield. No more perverse glee in speed just for the sake of speed. Now there was nothing. Only ever nothing.
    At first, Roadrunner had just sat there, spending his time sulking. He had been a king. Now he was just... nothing. After some time, he began to wonder what would happen to him. Would he be parted out, to live on in a dozen other cars? Would he be melted down to become a hundred beer cans? Would he simply sit here in the elements until the cancerous rust claimed piece after piece of him until nothing was left but a few broken bits of plastic and glass? That seemed most fitting. "Let the rains take me," he thought. "Rust me until there's nothing left." There was no more smile on his grill. It could no longer smile. It was in the back seat now. His beautiful empress blue paint was beyond salvaging. His engine could no longer roar. His chrome was pitted and dull. He was nothing now. Only ever nothing.
    Then one day he heard the voices of men approaching. He watched as the owner of the junkyard approached with another man walking next to him. He listened as they spoke to one another.
    "That's the one. Right there."
    "Wow, you weren't kidding, she's seen some better days."
    "Well, price is still $500, if you want it."
    "Yeah, definitely. My son's getting really into cars, so I thought I'd get a project for us to work on together. This one seems like a real diamond in the rough. It'll be gorgeous when we're done."
    "Well, let's go inside and I'll sign the title over to you. I'm sure you and your boy will have a great time gettin' it back on the road."
    Roadrunner could never be sure with his grill still in the back seat, but he imagined he could feel it beginning to smile again.


The End