Petrol head

4am tired, hollow eyed and empty. Peer at alarm clock. Late. Fling self out door, Blood Buzz, loud. Eyelids peeling back, driving to the wire. Boy racing cross-country. Twenty miles of back road winding. Winning.

No! Stymied by a 30mph, flat-capped, silver surfer with time to kill. Really not now. Glance at clock make that a double no with an eye-bleeding espresso on the side, no sugar.

Don’t tail-gate, don’t. Not big, not clever and he’ll just let the speedo drop to just above zero. I know I would. Hang back, be polite, be polite.. Know this road like the back of my cat-scratched, washed-out hands. One chance, maybe two if the oncoming isn’t. Hoping and it’s a clear ahead. Change down, opportunity snatched. Foot flat to, engine howling happily, let loose, wolf at the moon. And we’re past.

Twelve years and the suspension’s a bag bouncing spanners but we can still pack our punches. Drive like there’s actually a hole in the bonnet and the devil’s on my back, eyes fixed on the road, but there’s a persistent red light in the corner of. I swear it’s getting brighter, more insistent every time i steal a glance.

And the parking gods are looking down kindly and we’re there by the skin of. No 30 zones violated, the invitation to an open road accepted gratefully and the engine didn’t putter to a halt for lack of food. Whispers heartfelt thank you. Oh may the wheels of steel last forever more. For when my legs aren’t fit to carry me I’ll just drive till I drop off the edge.

We’re going to run out go-go juice driving the 200 yards round the corner to the garage aren’t we?

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