Third gear: my heart pounding, the rain chanting on my windscreen “faster, faster. ” Fourth gear and I can feel the engine burst out with excitement. It is time. Fifth gear: the G-force rises and the sweat is pouring into my ear like a racing river. My eyes are drawn to the dashboard, glaring at the shining red button, guarded by a sheet of see-through plastic. My hand, shaking like a rattlesnake, floats through the air reaching closer and closer now touching the button. I push my hand! The speed rises dramatically.

The finish line is within my sight, I can feel the finish line and there is a buzz in my ear of the crowds roar at the finish line. Never have I felt this kind of glory; never have I felt so warm or happy. The last turn approaches and I am confident I can do it. I take a sharp pull on the steering wheel and my car spirals out of control inches away from the finish line. It erupts in blistering flames and I can hear the crowd cry, “It’s going to blow! ” Hundreds of rushing footsteps echo in my ear as people run away from me.

Trapped in this big, bulky, metallic cage with no way of escaping I think, am I going to share the same awful fate as my dad did? The warmth is slowly slipping out of my body and my hands firmly clenched on the steering wheel. My life starts to flash before my eyes. Ever since I can remember racing had always played a large part in my life, from the day my dad bought me my first ever toy car. Beautifully hand painted with flashes of emerald and burgundy sliced into a ruby coloured surface. An overpowering stench of engine oil closely followed the toy, due to the fact that it was always with me in my dad’s garage.

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It was a gigantic garage with heaps of scrap, which stretched miles into the air like colossal mountains. A young boy’s paradise. I spent most of my childhood days there, helping out with the never-ending work my dad did. In return he used to take me down to the local track and teach me everything he knew about the wonderful world of racing. At the age of twelve I was able to complete a lap in less than twenty-four seconds. This was a huge achievement as the world record was a mere eighteen seconds. My dad realised the potential in me and hired the best manager around named Bobby Dylan.

Mr Dylan was a tall, crepuscular looking man with a long crooked nose, puffy cheeks and large dome eyes that could suck the happiness away from a person just from a glance. He was tipped to be the next world champion until he was tragically disabled from the hip below. Dad never told me the story of what happened to Mr Dylan, all he used to say was, “It was a wet night,” or, “It was an accident. ” He was a fantastic manager and he taught me how winning was all about tactics and being able to think like a racer. The biggest lesson that Mr Dylan taught me was to use my environment and make the most out of every situation.

In other words if the track is wet go sharp and slide, or if it’s dry go slow around corners and build up the speed steadily. When I was sixteen, a tragic event occurred. Birds singing: sun shining, fluffy clouds high up in the sky. It was ten in the morning and it was a beautiful day so my dad and me were going for our usual daily lap of the track. It started like any other day; I got in the car feeling a huge dose of excitement. I turned the engine on: twenty miles per hour then forty then eighty, one hundred and twenty miles per hours.

I remember the feeling I got that day it was the feeling of immortality. My dad told me that if I carried on I would beat my record. I forced my foot down and I was reaching speeds that I had never dared to even try! I hardened the grip on the steering wheel, but it wasn’t strong enough, the steering wheel started vibrating. My dad shouted at me to slow down so I went to lower the gear, but one hand was not strong enough to control the vibrations of the steering wheel. Before I knew it the car had somersaulted and it was flipped upside down.

I looked over at my dad and he was lying there with thousand of pieces of glass scattered all over him, I take a closer and I see two pieces of glass wedged deep into is heart. At that moment I felt my heart shatter into a thousand pieces. Lying there looking straight into my eyes and he said in a surprisingly calm, defiant tone, “I have lived my life in a way that honours your mum, I have lived my life in a way that honours you and I want you to live your life in a way that honours me, never let anything stand in the way of your dream, never give up hope. He took his last breath and shut his eyes and I remember the look on his face he had so vividly and it was a look of satisfaction. The birds stopped singing; the sun stopped shining and the clouds took over the sky, it turned from midday to night. Huge bolts of lightning came out of nowhere, followed by a sudden downpour of rain. It was like a fountain, nothing could be seen, it was impossible to cry, and it was impossible to move. The rain was never-ending. It went on for hours and hours.

This whipping in the eyes of God was pounding every inch of my body, every inch of the ground. To this day I don’t know why I did this, but I started running, running like a raging bull. Running as fast as my feet would carry me in any direction, the downpour of rain couldn’t stop me, nothing could stop me. My legs were burning in agony, but I was still running, running to places I had never seen before, running through bushes and fields with razor-sharp grass. I fell to the ground, not because I wanted to, but my legs could not physically carry on.

I was lying on the ground being pounded by the rain and I screamed: louder than the thunderbolts, louder than a screaming child and the rain suddenly stopped, as fast as it began. Now lying in this heap of metal about to die, I think to myself what my dad thought to himself all those years ago, is it so bad to die doing what you love? I loosen my clench on the steering wheel and I take my last breath. The last bit of warmth escapes my body and I can feel what my dad felt all those years ago, the feeling of satisfaction.


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