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The sound: primal; physical; intimidating.

I pumped my foot. She rocked, gently swaying me in her bucket seats as gentle as a mother would her babe.

I looked left.

The Pontiac shuddered in anticipation of her coming defeat. Her driver stared hard at me.

I pumped the pedal twice. My baby cleared her throat.

The Pontiac driver’s eyes grew wide, fearful. He swallowed. His disgustingly light pink tongue flicked across his dry lips.

I smiled and turned to look down the road. I kept half an eye on the signal.

Red to green. My baby sat still as she laid down a carpet of rubber beneath her. Grey swirls of smoke obscured the view behind me.

The Pontiac shot forward snaking from left to right, desperately trying to hold onto the road and her unexpected advantage. The driver sawed at the wheel.

My rear tyres bit hard into the tarmac. Soft bucket seats accepted my form as I sank deep into their embrace. No need to fight the wheel. My baby launched herself forward. The gap to the Pontiac closed.

The gap between us disappeared as we both hit our final gear. Side-by-side. Only inches separated the door handles. I glanced at my opposition. Sweat poured down his face. He would loose—and he knew it.

From a side-street a representative of the blue-rinse baby-boomers turned into our track, nursing the vintage Cadillac into third.

There was nowhere for the Pontiac to go. Nowhere for me to go either.

We stomped on our brake pedals simultaneously. It was too late.

I struck Ms Boomer in the right rear as she attempted to make a right-hand turn into Baker Street.

My baby was angry at the touch. She climbed the old car, announcing her dominance over it before realising her folly.

She arched her back and showed the world her workings. The ground came up fast. Glass shattered. Bones shattered. Pain. So much blood…

The Pontiac shot through the finish line, her tyres squealing as she slid left and out of sight.

I lost--everything.

A flicker of flame.

Race over