It is a hot Friday night in July. The paycheck in my pocket is just enough to keep us going for another week. I enter the track and wave to the ambulance crew who has patched me up once or twice. The sound is ear splitting. The track announcer promises speed, thrills, and chills.

Damn! My engine is running sick. I am more than a little disgusted with this thing on wheels. But all is not lost! A driver from Carolina has not arrived, and the car owner offers me a ride.

The heat is ten ragged laps of over enthusiastic fender banging. My car seems lighter. It has a quicker steering response and is alive with horsepower. The engine sings!

The owner smiles when I win the heat and the semi-final. I will start 19th in The Feature. The track announcer promises a bonus to anyone who breaks the win streak of the track champ.

The field rolls forward with engines reving. The fans yell encouragement. Twenty-four cars in a double row ricochet through the first two turns. It is too loud, too fast, and too tight. Sparks fly and fenders are redesigned by impacts. I am making no progress.

The champ is two places in front of me. Two other front runners are working me high and low, outside and inside. Slots open but I can’t find the right grove. Hey, the champ is behind two cars that are slowing! I make a stupid move to the outside of all three and the right rear rubs the wall. Dripping with sweat I realize that I have bitten the wet sponge I carry in my teeth into two pieces.

Two cars impact hard and one hits the wall. A crack and a loud, slow roll right in front of me. How did I get away with just a fender nick? The tow truck picks up the two cars. No ambulance rolling. Racer’s luck. All is okay.