Ha. They should have known not to leave the inside open.
A smile crept across my face as I came out of the drift and onto the straight, leaving the other racers in my rearview. With nothing but the open track in front of me, I strained to gain a little more speed. Taking the lead, yeah sure, that was commendable, but I knew I could do better. It was time to give the spectators a win they wouldn't soon forget.
Fireball Beach was a favorite track of mine, right beneath reliable ol' Thomasville. Pushing myself along the sand next to the ocean made me feel more powerful than ever. I wasn't just competing against the other racers, I was challenging the waves, the might of the earth itself. And that day, I was winning.
"Last lap!" someone yelled from the infield. I couldn't tell who, but it didn't matter. I had a solid three second cushion now between myself and the others, and I could already feel the trophy and taste the brews we were going to celebrate with that night.
The crowd was going wild. It wasn't often a racer won by this large of a lead, and while some preferred the lip-biting excitement of a close race, these folks seemed thrilled to have otherwise. I moved to the outside lane to give them a small gesture of appreciation by way of leaving a cloud of dust over those nearest to the track as I sped by. My fans knew this signaled an inevitable win. i had no other reason to keep away from the inside.
I never saw the rut as I rounded turns one and two and entered onto the straightaway. I glanced over at the ocean for a mere second, and in the time it took me to mentally challenge the water one last time that day, I'd felt something give as I hit the dip in the ground.
They were never quite sure what it was - the dirt giving way a little? A stray patch of sand? My A-arm bending? I guess it doesn't really matter. Whichever it was, it threw me off my line, and in doing so, pushed me into a loose layer of dirt. Once there, there was no overcorrecting or undercorrecting. Just three things: vertigo, pain, and shock.
The tumble is a little fuzzy in my mind. I've learned more about it from watching that old video reel than from actually living the experience. I closed my eyes the second I saw the ground coming, and next thing I knew, I was right-side up again, but in pieces. I wasn't the Fabulous Hudson Hornet anymore. I was a smoking heap of twisted metal.
Finish the race. You gotta finish.
That was the first thing that crossed my mind. Not 'Am I okay?' or 'Send for help.' or even 'Good Chrysler, this hurts a lot.'. I couldn't feel anything right then, and I could still see the finish line. The racers… they were still behind! I could still win!
But then I tried to move. Turned out I wasn't resting on my undercarriage just to take a little weight off my tires. I collapsed into the sand again, experiencing the cruelest of pains. I couldn't move. 'Broken' wasn't an appropriate word to describe how I felt. 'Wrecked' is a little more descriptive, but it doesn't really capture what I was feeling inside of my crippled body.
Totaled. I was totaled.
Time is most elusive when you're unconscious. Hours can pass by as you nap, but months can pass while under reconstruction. But, to be honest with you, I would have much rather been unconscious than awake during my repairs. I couldn't tell you what they did to fix me, but it was nothing short of witchcraft at the time. Smokey's really was the best darn garage in town, and in all of North Carolina for that matter.
"Good as new." Smokey'd simply said when he woke me up for the final time, no less than a week before the season started. "You ready to show them what you've got?"
I didn't feel the need to answer. My revving engine did the job just fine.
Lucky for me, the first race of the season was in Thomasville, and I didn't have to drive any further than to the end of the road to arrive. I felt great. '55 was going to be my best year yet.
"Lookin' good, Hud."
"Aww, man! I thought I might actually get a win in this year."
"Woo-wee. Check you out!"
My fellow racers - my friends - immediately welcomed me back to the pack, and it felt so right. I was at home again. This was where I belonged. I entered the stadium and started searching for my crew and Smokey. I remember thinking it was funny that they weren't set up in their normal spot. This was our home track - what did they do to miss out?
Were they even there? I looked and looked forever. It might have been thirty seconds, total. They weren't anywhere to be found. Except Smokey. I finally found him.
But I was confused. He was surrounded by race officials over at their stand, getting heated about something. Smokey never got mad. He was the type to just get disappointed and move on. But this Smokey was livid. I hesitantly motored over to see what was going on. I'd never been nervous at a race before that day.
And I never would again. They all saw me coming and immediately ceased arguing. Smokey set his gaze on me, but wouldn't make direct eye contact. One of the race officials announced something to the group, and they dispersed, leaving Smokey sitting there alone.
"What's going on?" I asked, coming closer.
Smokey was silent for a few seconds. I almost regretted asking the simple question.
"They're not letting you race." Smokey's voice was tinged with anger. "They thought you'd never recover enough to race again so they brought in another rookie. I'm sorry, Hud, I tried to talk 'em out of it. But it's final. It's not our decision to make."
Smokey slowly drove off, not giving anyone the time of day as he exited the track premises. I sat there, completely dumbfounded.
I can't race? But I can. I practiced yesterday. I'm fine.
The moment Smokey disappeared, I started to panic. This couldn't be the end. Not after everything I'd done. I caught a glimpse of the race official that seemed to have had the final say in the matter. I was moving before it even registered that I wanted to approach him.
"Sir!" I called out. "Sir, hey, are you serious? I'm ready to race. I know I can."
I thought I caught a hint of sadness on that old pickup's face as he turned to look me over. I'd seen him before. He attended nearly every race. He might have even cheered me on a few times.
He sighed. "Don't take it personally, kid. You're history, but history that'll be remembered."
"But - "
He drove away before I could say anything more.
Couldn't he see it? Couldn't he see how much I had left to give?