The Last Lap
The pace car peeled off into pit road.
He rolled forward in formation, keeping the nose square, engine hot under his legs.
The track shimmered in the sun. He blinked slow. Rolled his neck once. Twice. His gloves were already damp. The wheel vibrated just enough to keep him steady.
He didn’t think about the other drivers. Not anymore.
This was between him and the car now.
Green flag dropped.
He went.
Engine roared—raw and full-throated. The whole thing rumbled through his chest like a second heartbeat.
His fingers stayed loose on the wheel. He’d learned not to strangle it. You strangle it, you overcorrect. You overcorrect, you lose it.
First turn, smooth. High line. Let the others fight below.
Second lap, found his rhythm.
Third, he started gaining ground.
The groove was narrow today—just a lane and a half. Miss it and you’d drift up into the marbles. He stayed in it like it was drawn for him personally.
Tires humming. Body leaning. Hands steady.
He barely noticed when he passed the car ahead.
Didn’t check the mirror. Didn’t need to.
Lap four.
The car was talking now. The front end a little soft under braking.
He eased it through the corner, lifted just enough to catch it clean off exit.
He wasn’t racing for the trophy. Not today.
He was racing for the feeling.
That moment when everything works—the line, the throttle, the noise in your head—it all syncs. Just for a second. Like a prayer nobody hears but you.
Then he hit something.
Not a tap. A jolt.
Front wheels kicked. Rear end snapped loose.
He tried to catch it. Feathered the gas. Counter-steered.
But it was already gone.
The car pitched.
Spun.
Flipped.
When he opened his eyes, the sun was behind her head.
“You alright?” she asked. Arms crossed. Calm. The calm of a woman who’s seen this exact thing happen before.
He blinked. “Think so.”
“You caught the root by the roses. Again.”
She stepped back so he could see the wreck.
The mower lay sideways in the grass. One wheel still spinning. The flowerbed—what was left of it—looked like a crime scene.
She disappeared for a second, then came back and tossed something on his chest.
Dead roses. Still thorny.
“You’re replanting them. All of them. With new soil this time, Vern!”
He didn’t argue. Just lay there.
The sky was blue. The breeze smelled like cut grass and summer.
He closed his eyes.
And somewhere far off, in a place only he could hear, the crowd came back.
Roaring. Cheering.
He smiled.
