I met Her tonight. The race car. The little beauty. I climbed through the roll cage, felt the seat cradle my ass, wriggled my shoulders into the back rest, gripped the wheel, caressed the gear shifter. My feet felt the pedals, all in perfect position for my legs. I played with the gears a bit, she is a five speed, of course. And then... And Then... I got to fire her up! Holymotherofgod! She roared to life, a throaty vibrato. I could feel her eagerness matching mine. I wanted to slide her into gear and steal away into the night to race hellbound for leather up and down the quiet suburban streets. She quivered like a race horse at the gate, that shiver of the skin that is a telltale sign of a beast ready to race. Then, sadly, I flipped the switch to silence her engine. The smell of exhaust teasing my nose, promising adventures yet to come.
Then the conversation, tinged with excitement, turned somewhat pragmatic as we discussed plans to clean her up, tweak a few things. She is not perfect. What is the fun in that? True, her engine is turnkey ready, and with very little effort she could be on the track showing us her prowess. But she has just enough things to be fixed, cleaned up, painted to make it a fun project. A way of claiming her for our own, making her truly one of the clan. And then she will tell us her name. And we will race.
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