Raceday

Some guys have it all made.

I mean, lookit him, all chiselled and all, decked up in shiny overalls. Look at the strut, the gait as he walks on to his drive, waving to the crowds. Thinks he is the good ol' Schumi, I tell you. Fact is, he just a kid; a lucky one. The camera focuses on his ride; yup, he's got one there. Kid's got taste, I'll give you that. Kid wins a race, then goes on to that futuristic hangar (!) where that platinum blonde briefs him about the stuff he can buy, all the time flashing a million dollar smile. Some guys have it all, I tell you.

Kid's roaring up his engine. We know better. We as in Max, Fuller and me, patiently waiting for the hoot, ready to go when it's time to. Kid's good, and today it looks like he's got some chicks come by see him race. I can almost hear them fawning over him; almost. The noise that kid makes can drown out pretty much everything else. Show-off!

Vrooom... here we go. Max and Fuller fall behind, as they always do. It's me and the kid, for now. The countryside races past by, the wind mercilessly flapping at our faces. Kid's got this sideways grin pasted on his face; I dunno how I look, the cam never bothers about me. The track's pretty standard, all full of twists and turns at sectors and then straight-ups at places. We are at the straight parts; kid's driving too fast, he's got a thin lead over me but I know better. Everyone's gotta fall back when the sharp turns begin.

Yeah baby! smoke that, kid. Someone's gotta tell him that you can't burn up the tarmac when it's twisted so much, kid. All that testo ain't everything, a man needs some grey stuff up there to ace this. What'cha Kid? feels stupid to get all those girls come over to see me win?

I put miles between us. All right, not my day...yards actually. But I swear there were times me, Max and Fuller could beat this kid hands down. Those olden days the kid could hardly finish. We'd be waiting at the line, for the young harridan to come by and finish the ordeal. Now lookit him, he's got into winning, podium pics, champagne flourish and all. Yet he was always the camera kid. That dastardly cam's always been on him. Go figure.

We're almost at the last lap, Kid breathing my smoke. He ain't gonna let up, not today, with all those frocks awaiting him. One thing, he's got jolly good support; you can almost hear the girls egging him to the finish line. Must be cute girls; god knows what they are wearing. Dunno, don't get around much. God knows what they look like, smell like, taste like. I just race. It's just me and the beast. It's like I'm programmed to do only one thing in this life, to race. Thanklessly. Not for me the fanfare, the music and all. I race.

You can almost see the line. A draft of sense blows over me. Who am I kidding? He races therefore I am. He'd get the girls if he wins now; what'd I get? Another race? A dry, snorting, soulfucked laugh bellows inside me. I slow down, but not by too much to make it look suspect. Kid zooms by, still wearing the same grin. If I din't know any better, I'd have thought he's like that only.

The fanfare follows. Orchestra, lights, camera... champagne. We are there too, looking smug, filling up the podium like we are somebody's afterthought. Kid relieves us by opting for a race- this time in the sunny skies of California.

Awwright, Kid; buckle up. Winning twice in a row might mean you'll dump me for that bald old hitman. No kid gloves this time.