From "Head On"
“Aim right for it,” Ron told me.
I pulled my helmet and hood off and ran tired fingers through squashed, sweaty hair. I had to have heard wrong. “What?”
“If you’re running at speed and a wreck starts going down in front of you, aim right for it. Inertia will carry it out of your way and you’ll drive right by.”
I looked past him, over his shoulder, buffeted by successive roaring Doppler ascents and descents from other cars lapping us. He was serious. I tried not to shake my head. Aim right for a wreck. There was no way I could do that, not any more than half the other techniques Ron was trying to teach me. Instead, I just lingered on the pit lane, next to him and my 1972 Opel GT, trying to look like I belonged. The two layers of Nomex I’d put on that morning in case the car burst into flames sagged from sweat. My neck ached from trying to keep up with high-speed turns that jerked me left, then right. My calves burned from the trembling, constant pressure I applied to the car’s accelerator, brake, and clutch.
***
I clipped the apex coming around the corner, turned hard and saw the Mini’s undercarriage. The Mini was airborne, upside down in front of me, right on the racing line, exactly where I was supposed to put my car.
I remembered Ron like a distant echo: “Aim right for him.”
Quick moves at speed would send me rolling over just like the Mini. I didn’t have time to think and hadn’t developed reliable reflexes. The racing line, now blocked by the Mini shedding small mechanical pieces and cascading gravel, would take me into a short straight and a hard left. I knew it was there, but couldn’t see it. I breathed once, grabbed the wheel tight at ten and two and pushed the accelerator all the way down. Then, God help me, I closed my eyes.
Excerpts from contest winner published in On The Premises #21, November, 2013
I pulled my helmet and hood off and ran tired fingers through squashed, sweaty hair. I had to have heard wrong. “What?”
“If you’re running at speed and a wreck starts going down in front of you, aim right for it. Inertia will carry it out of your way and you’ll drive right by.”
I looked past him, over his shoulder, buffeted by successive roaring Doppler ascents and descents from other cars lapping us. He was serious. I tried not to shake my head. Aim right for a wreck. There was no way I could do that, not any more than half the other techniques Ron was trying to teach me. Instead, I just lingered on the pit lane, next to him and my 1972 Opel GT, trying to look like I belonged. The two layers of Nomex I’d put on that morning in case the car burst into flames sagged from sweat. My neck ached from trying to keep up with high-speed turns that jerked me left, then right. My calves burned from the trembling, constant pressure I applied to the car’s accelerator, brake, and clutch.
***
I clipped the apex coming around the corner, turned hard and saw the Mini’s undercarriage. The Mini was airborne, upside down in front of me, right on the racing line, exactly where I was supposed to put my car.
I remembered Ron like a distant echo: “Aim right for him.”
Quick moves at speed would send me rolling over just like the Mini. I didn’t have time to think and hadn’t developed reliable reflexes. The racing line, now blocked by the Mini shedding small mechanical pieces and cascading gravel, would take me into a short straight and a hard left. I knew it was there, but couldn’t see it. I breathed once, grabbed the wheel tight at ten and two and pushed the accelerator all the way down. Then, God help me, I closed my eyes.
Excerpts from contest winner published in On The Premises #21, November, 2013