The Car Looked Nice Will Pesta

The car looked nice. It wasn't flashy or fancy; it looked nice. But under the sleek orange bodywork was a vicious bit of mechanical engineering. Some might say that it was a good example of objective concinnity. Local competitors who saw the azure "37" across the driver's side fender cringed at the thought of racing against it. Once someone contested to race officials that the driver, even after the car had passed tech, was trying to trick the inspectors, sort of a Coup de Jarnac. If you saw it for the first time it would evoke a feeling of speed, maybe a race on television, or even a fast song. Plain and simple, this car looked fast, and it devoured any road it was thrown on.      It is surprising that even with his reputation, the car's driver was more or less unknown. Only a few could tell you that he had black hair. His mother was probably the only one who knew that he had dark brown eyes. When he was on the track he wore tinted goggles. Off the track, he wore a pair of incredibly expensive sunglasses. Speaking to anyone, for him, was truly astonishing. He was composed, and he never worried about anything. He had driven through "The Corkscrew" at Laguna Seca, and came out without a bead of sweat on his brow. He seemed cold, detached from everyone and everything, except his car.      The car was the only thing that kept him going. It was his whole life. When he wasn't working at his track, he was driving to seminars, classes, or anywhere he could find knowledge, all in his car. He felt connected to it. It was an extension of himself, just as a foil is to a fencer. He couldn't imagine a day without driving his car. When he was in the cockpit, he was completely focused on the task at hand. He was determined to do everything he could to refine his skills in order to bring out the best in his car.      On a cool Sunday in spring, perfect for driving, he pulled up to the starting line of the Apricot Valley Speedway, relaxed as always. He had qualified first, which didn't surprise anyone. The other five drivers felt that they had wasted their whole weekend before the race had even started. He sat tranquilly in the car and methodically revved the engine. He saw the first light illuminate, and unconsciously grasped the blue-rimmed Momo steering wheel with his $200 driving gloves. The second light lit up and he flicked the carbon fiber shift knob into first, while simultaneously pulling his blue goggles over his eyes. The third light seemed to glow while he pushed the accelerator to the firewall. The car launched from the starting line, pinning the driver to the back of his seat. He impulsively piloted the car to the right side of the road, knowing that the first turn was a left. He executed the turn in textbook fashion. The next was a left as well, again, textbook. He was perfect, posting the fastest time at the first checkpoint. After ten laps, he had surpassed times once thought unbeatable.      Flying out of the final turn flawlessly, he took a fleeting look at the speedometer and saw it climbing above 125 miles per hour. He was on the final straight and knew that he had won the race. His back was sore, but it did not bother him. He saw the speedometer, still rising, at 187 miles per hour, as he crossed the finish line.      The man operating the first checkpoint sat in his chair, only to watch the horrific crash unfold in front of him. The checkpoint operator later said, " I have never seen anything that horrible in my entire life. I think that the mechanics said he had brake failure, too hot and everything. So, I saw him coming at like 210 and he went right into the wall. Working at the checkpoint, I sat up close to all of the action, so I can get an accurate time, you know? So, I saw this guy coming in at 215 and I look into the car, to see his face, you know? It was kind of weird, this guy was going 220, fifty feet from the wall, and he had a big grin on his face. At least he died happy."

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