One Last Race
by Jeff Davies

A figure sat unmoving, gazing into space without really seeing. Memories
flickered behind the eyes.

I remember? I remember the good times.

It felt like yesterday that he'd been waiting anxiously, waiting out each
day hoping and praying for someone to notice him. To give him a chance. He
knew he could be the greatest driver anyone had ever seen, but day after
day went by without a flicker of interest. He'd began to despair - why
couldn't they see? - when the man had come. Without hesitation, he'd
suddenly found himself at the end of his waiting. He'd found a backer!

His heart had soared. His car was the most beautiful machine he'd ever
seen, a long, low silver bullet that sped along the track as if the wheels
were wings. A feral smile curled his lips as he tore around the track,
sliding the rear around each corner. He knew he never wanted to drive
anything else: this car and he were the perfect match.

The first race had been tough. He'd thought he was used to the car, thought
he knew it well enough to race it. Rudely re-educated, the car had spun off
at the first corner into the barricade. He remembered the feeling of his
heart twisting in his chest with despair as he felt the car slide out from
under him, hurtling into the red and white that flew at him like the
vengeful fist of a god.

Fortunately no major damage was caused and the car was pushed back onto the
track, but he'd lost too much time. He drove the best he could, the car
flying around the corners as if there was no possibility he could lose
control. A not very illustrious fifth place of eight was his lot, though he
did manage to claw back a little of the time he'd lost. Not good enough.

He ended the race dissatisfied, though his backer seemed pleased enough
with his first outing. Fifth place! Hah. Every moment away from the track
he spent itching to get back out there, the faces of others barely touching
his attention. His backer allowed him to take the machine out a few times,
but not nearly enough for his liking.

Finally, the next race meeting loomed and he was out practicing in earnest.
He'd embarrassed himself last time - this time would be different. The
tyres melted to perfect smoothness under the heat and roughness of the
track, laying rubber over every imperfection until the world was a mere
speeding blur, to which he reacted without thought as a tiny abstract part
of his mind watched with a sense of wonder the stream of colours and the
rush of wind.

He smiled internally at the memory of that race. He'd never driven better,
riding the rush of adrenaline he felt like a young god, all speed and power
and indestructibility. No one could match him: to a man they fell behind,
falling further with every lap. He tore across the finish line and slowly
cruised to a stop, slowly returning to reality. He was pleased to see his
backer exuberant, glad he'd proved he was the right choice.

And so it went, for a while. He raced at every meeting, winning some,
losing sometimes to another. He no longer raced against the same opponents
he had to begin with, their backers had moved on and obtained new cars, new
drivers. His backer stayed up for night upon night, working with the car to
try and keep it's edge, to give it one more advantage that would let it
stay ahead of his increasingly overpowering competition.

Deep inside, he'd known a creeping feeling that clawed at his spine with
cold fingers. Sooner or later, he'd no longer be good enough, the car too
out of date to compete. He bemoaned the passage of time for a while, denied
angrily he could ever be out of date. Too old to drive any more.

Finally, there was the deciding race. Field of eight cars, amongst which
the glittering simplicity of his vehicle seemed antiquarian, a relic. A
smoothly curved red Maserati lay to his right, self confident and smug in
it's superiority. He'd not done so well during the last couple of races,
simply unable to keep up with the Maserati and it's driver. Third place,
fourth. He was losing it.

The lights lit with their ruddy glow and his attention narrowed to a
razor's edge, ready. On the brilliant green the entire field left the
blocks like athletes, accelerating into the first corner. He was ahead of
the pack, accelerating recklessly hard to keep ahead of the Maserati. The
curve of the first corner loomed up before him  and suddenly he knew he'd
gone too far. The car gave a warning lurch, then suddenly lost traction and
he slid across the track, crunching to a stop against the barrier.

Against the thudding of his heart in his ears he heard his backer calling
the marshals to get him back into the track. For  a fleeting moment he
wondered if it was worth trying. Perhaps it was batter to give up in a race
he couldn't win. While locked into his internal monologue the marshals had
pushed him back onto the track. No. This far, and no further. The car
slammed forward as he gave it everything he had, hurtling down the straight
towards the next corner and flying around it as though it weren't there,
accelerating hard all the way.

The shape of a yellow Porsche swelled before him as he gave the car it's
head, watching it slow for the corner. He barely touched the brake as he
sped past the Porsche on the inside, powering around the corner. The silver
car sped down the track as if it was part of it, whipping around the
corners with perfect, fluid grace. Another car down. A third. The laps were
ticking down, a distant part of his mind catching the lap numbers as they
were shouted.

He paid little heed to the shapes of his opponents as he overtook them, one
by one. His mind was focused to a single bright thread, flowing with the
shape of the road ahead, without a single vocalised thought to impair him.
When finally the red Maserati hove into view, he responded at a level
deeper than thought. This was the enemy, this was the one he had to beat.
To be the best.

Two laps left. The pair hurled around the track, the Maserati realising the
danger and pulling out the drive of his life. The paired streaks of red and
silver flew past the blur of track and spectators, as if connected by an
invisible force that would let neither be free. One lap left.

The Maserati was still a fraction ahead. They came around the final corner,
a dead run for the finish line. This is why I was created. This is why I am
here. No choice. The silver machine leapt forward, far too fast to slow for
the end of the straight. It ripped past the Maserati, lunging ahead and
across the finishing line. Unable to stop, the car hurled itself at the
corner.

For a moment it seemed as though it might make it, hanging on the lip of
traction? then broke free. The car slammed into the barrier hard, tipping
up onto it's side before falling back to the track. Through the ringing in
his ears, he distantly heard cheers.

That was the end. The car was never the same, and tell the truth, neither
was I. My backer decided it was time to retire the vehicle, and I went with
it. I don't regret that. So now I sit, and watch the dust fall like snow,
slowly burying my car and me, and remember.

**

A man approached a shelf, long fingered hands sliding aside a glass panel
and reaching within to the ranks of models arrayed in line. His fingers
closed over a battered silver model and lifted it to his face, blowing the
dust off. He smoothed the remains of the dust away, the helmet of the
driver coming up a fresh red as if it were new. The scrapes in the paint
reminded him of the crash it'd taken, when he decided it was time to put it
away, before it got more damaged.

He smiled fondly at the model, and thought of the track he had laid down in
another room. "Come on then." he said aloud to the tiny figure of the
driver. "One last race."