It's the dusk before, actually. It's not a good day, training-wise, though apparently the weather had been beautiful. Neither of them had even begun to notice. It was just the dust, the track, and Lightning's perambulations around it.
"I don't even know what that word means," Lightning objects, eyes narrowing defensively.
"Means you're slow," says Doc, because Lightning hates that the most and Doc is not afraid to use it. Lightning had stopped trying half an hour prior, and while Doc has never resorted to cruelty for motivation, he also has not elected to take the high road today.
A more patient teacher might have been content to recognize that today's laps were moments of growth - that particular kind of growth that makes it suddenly clear how much better your student can become, by virtue of demonstrating how far they are from the finish line. It's the kind of growth that, in chasing these new potentials, completely destroys their apparent understanding of their foundations. Lightning's so focused on trying to hit something he doesn't understand and can't begin to feel for that he can't even make it around the track without spinning out. If he were to take his performance to Texas right now, there's a chance he would not even qualify for the race.
As the sun sinks, so does Lightning's grasp of the basics. The longer they stay, the worse it gets.
A more patient teacher might save their resurgence for another day. Admit defeat, come back fresh. But no racecar has ever been known for his patience, and Doc knows he doesn't have that kind of time. Because the thing is - he can see where Lightning can take this, if only he could figure it out. He can see all these new horizons which have only recently begun to blossom. He wants to make sure Lightning meets them.
Selfishly, he wants to be there, to see it for himself. And he knows that that's not guaranteed. Doc knows he doesn't have that kind of time.
He's not ready, Doc thinks. Clarification: Lightning isn't ready. Not for this.
Lightning turns a 43-second lap, which is so far off even his average lap time Doc doesn't even bother to count the hundredths, thousandths of seconds.
"This isn't even asphalt," Lightning mutters, when Doc calls out the time. "I'm going to handle completely different on the real track. I don't see the point."
Even though, of course, this is where he's always trained. This is the dirt that's saved him any number of times, through countless loose turns, sudden spins, and innumerable "straight dirt track saves," in the words of Darrell Cartrip. This is the dirt that taught him how to race, really race, so many years ago. (Not enough years ago. It's not enough time - but now they're running out. Doc is.)
"You don't want to see the point," says Doc. "You're not even trying."
"YES I AM," shouts Lightning, though he's not. He has to know he's not, right? He has to know he can do better than he's being.
Lightning shouts, "Why is nothing ever good enough for you?!"
This argument is stupid, though Doc at least knows better than to point that out. He's proud of Lightning, and Lightning damn well knows it.
"Fine," says Doc. "This is good enough. I think this is the best you can do. Congratulations. How does it feel?"
Lightning fills his cheeks with air, lips pouting. He resembles a very angry tomato. But he doesn't say anything in retaliation. He turns another lap. 30 seconds this time.
But "That's the worst one yet," shouts Doc, into the dust. "You're relying on what's worked before, not what's gonna make you better."
Lightning turns another 30-second lap. Another. Then Doc watches as Lightning adjusts his set-up, holds his wheels at an experimental camber and relaxes his suspension. He takes one lap at a leisurely 90, testing the waters. Then he's ready.
This time he's going to do it.
Doc starts the clock.
Almost immediately, Lightning spins loose through Turn 2. Then he's overbearingly tight the next time around. It just doesn't get better. They only stop because the sun goes down. Lightning's so frustrated he doesn't even speak to Doc on the way back to town. He doesn't speak to anyone - just backs haphazardly into his Cozy Cone and goes to sleep.
And here's the thing. Doc generally leaves the histrionics to Lightning. Doc's been around long enough to know the long game's the only one that matters. Lightning acts like every little thing could be the end of the world, which is what makes him both good and bad. Doc, by contrast, has built his image in this own as the even rule of law, the march of time, the sage eternity of place itself. But pulling into his garage that night, he feels a pang of worry. What if Lightning's not ready? What if he can't be? It's only been three years, and the last time something of Doc's had ended three years in, he can assure you he was not ready.
Maybe it's you, is Doc's last thought, before he sinks into sleep. There's an uneasiness in his engine and maybe it's you, Hud, who isn't ready. You're supposed to be grace, and you're not. You're supposed to accept, and you don't. You're supposed to be grateful, because you've had so very long.
But it's never long enough, is it?
The roads are never long enough.
The next morning, Doc wanted to wake up, and didn't.