It was another night on that lonely desert road, the road where we all went to drag race. All of us were different from each other in many ways. Gear-heads, metal-heads, bikers, sport bikers, hipsters, and others; but we all had one thing in common, a love for racing. We lined up at the chalk starting line, sport bikes vs. choppers, American muscle cars vs. Japanese imports; the match-ups were sometimes just crazy but that was part of the thrill, to see just WHICH vehicle was better than all the others. Even the girls got into the action at our little makeshift drag strip, bringing their own sweet rides to race against everyone else. And on occasion, you’d hear the cries of some dumb dude who’d just lost the pink slip to his ride to one of the women racers.
Finally it was my turn to ride. My car was certainly ready for it, a 1967 Shelby GT500 that I meticulously restored and modified. I revved the engine, almost feeling the gasoline flowing through it like the blood pumping through my heart. The girl holding the starting flag raised it and counted down from ten, it felt like the beats of my heart was timed exactly to her count.
Five… four… three… two… one, and as the girl swept the flag downwards, I rammed the pedal to the floor. the only thing on my mind from then on, was winning…
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