the engine of the matte black plymouth ticked as it cooled. its owner fidgeted nervously in the driver's seat, checking the rear view mirror frequently in between pointlessly perusing the lightless gauges and absently clunking the floor shifter through the gears. it was just a street race, a back road gunfight that no one would probably remember, but his mouth still had the acrid taste of fear, and his palms were still slick as he fiddled with the shifter. that was wrong; they would remember. years later, when carefree teens had morphed into dutiful fathers and mothers, people would reminisce, and from some dark recess this race would be dredged and relived. it mattered now, and it would matter later. he couldn't fathom the shame of losing, not when so much of his identity was tied to this frankenstein of a used car, but there was nothing more he could do to prepare for victory. nothing to do but watch the mirror for a set of headlights.
he knew he was early, but he couldn't have waited anywhere else. besides, arriving first had allowed him to test the traction of the old asphalt, and pick which side of the road he wanted to line up on. his little black volare needed every advantage against the behemoth camaro that would soon sit alongside him. for the nth time, his mind whirred through a series of checks: oil was fresh, fuel filter was brand new a week ago, quarter tank of high octane (no sense adding more weight in fuel!), engine timing was spot-on...he wondered whether his opponent had sweated over his machine with the same loving detail, then dismissed the thought. to him, the camaro was probably just a car. besides, with its high-dollar, professionally built engine and fat radials, he didn't need to worry over minutiae. "but i sure the hell do" he mused. unlike the classic 1969 hotrod he would soon do battle with, his was an unwanted car from an unwanted generation of cars. a 1976 plymouth volare, pulled in non-running condition from his grandfather's back forty graveyard of transportation that had outlived its usefulness. something about the ugly duckling had always appealed to him. years before this nerve-drenched moment, he had played out such scenarios in his young mind as he sat behind the wheel, out in the weeds, barely seeing over the dashboard as he pretended to drive. his bond with the car grew when his grandfather passed away, and he knew when the land was sold that the volare had to come home with him, despite having been peacefully rotting away in the field for nearly a decade.
he had methodically massaged the hulk of rusted steel and leaking fluids into the finely tuned hodge podge of junkyard scraps and expensive speedshop pieces that now sat quietly on the tarmac. it didn't have the flashiness of the camaro, but it was well-built, and it could really run. each part, from the low-mileage small block engine swapped in from a wrecked police cruiser, to the posi-traction rear axle from a retired mail car, to the custom-ground camshaft that cost him two weeks' wages, had been carefully considered and matched to the rest of the project, and had already netted his car the coveted status of 'sleeper'. but now that the word was out, his volare was a stealth warrior no more. after tonight, he would either be the king, or he would be just another also-ran, and all of the credibility he'd amassed would quickly evaporate. his thoughts had drifted to the negative, led by his creeping concern that the camaro was just too much; too many power-inducing components, too much plain old money spent to be overcome with ingenuity and stubborn hard work....and then the headlights appeared. this is it, either way, he thought. but it wasn't; the headlights, which he quickly recognized as those of a ford, rushed up on him, then the battered truck they were attached to whipped around beside him and skidded to a halt. a mass of humanity ensconced in the back end slammed forward into the cab, cursing and laughing. people piled out of the truck and quickly aligned themselves along the makeshift raceway. several more vehicles quickly followed. beers appeared in hands, voices became loud and boisterous, and the deserted back road took on the feel of a party.
he had just allowed himself a moment to savor the small talk, some of it with people who hadn't even known his name in high school last year but now viewed him as the 'people's champion', when headlights again appeared. this time they did not belong to a ford truck. as the car came into view, a throaty roar split the twilight, and a shiny red flank came into view as the camaro's powerful big block overpowered the tires and tossed the rear end casually sideways. wide, white-lettered tires crunched the gravel-strewn pavement as it rumbled up beside the plain looking plymouth. after a chest thumping rev, its owner killed the massive engine and silence reigned once more. "you still wanna run that turd against this?" the camaro's driver shouted over through the open window. he noted with disdain that there was a female passenger behind the flawless red door. his opponent obviously wasn't worried about extra weight. "i'm here, ain't i?" he replied flatly, then added "titles, like i said?" the camaro's owner snorted. "i ain't running you for titles, that piece of shit's not even worth what i paid for tires! tell you what though," he continued, "i'm tired of hearing about how fast that death trap is, so i wanna get it off the streets for public safety. i'll put up my engine against your whole car." his heart pounded a mile a minute. what had he been thinking! pride had gotten the better of him; he could not lose this car. it would be like losing a child, he imagined. but still, he knew that the big block chevy housed between the fenderwells of that camaro was in fact worth much more than his entire car. in fact, he knew that winning - and selling - that engine would net him enough to get into technical college and out from under the glass ceiling that was his life. it was now or never. "that's bullshit, but okay. if i gotta take that garbage skow chevy from you piece by piece i will." and with that salvo of bravado, he turned the key and the volare came to life. sounding nothing like the pure terror of the camaro's huge engine, it instead emanated a finely tuned purr, with a hint of the loping idle that only a big cam offers. the rpm's rose and fell as he carefully warmed the engine, lost in the sounds of its mechanical rhapsody. then the camaro grunted back to life and drowned him out almost completely.
the time for verbal volleying was over; a lithe blonde girl he knew faintly from school strode confidently to the center of the road, taking her place between and slightly in front of the cars as though she'd been there many times - and probably had. "you guys ready?" she yelled, barely audible over the rumbling motors. "hell yeah, let's get this over with." the camaro's driver shouted. behind the wheel of the little plymouth, he simply nodded, then settled into his seat as the girl raised both arms high into the night air. he allowed his instincts to take over, and cleared his mind. his right foot brought the engine speed up above 2500 rpm's, while his left foot eased the clutch part way out. he took a loose grip on the wheel with one hand, and a death grip on the shifter handle with the other.
the blonde girl's arms dropped, and her mouth formed the word "GO!" silently under the roar of horsepower. his reflexes, tuned by months of practice with the plymouth and numerous races without such high stakes, did not fail him, and he dumped the clutch, gunned the engine, and ripped out to a brief lead of half a car-length. it was short lived, however, as the camaro's massive tires found purchase and slung the car past him. "don't panic,"he mouthed to himself; redline was quickly reached, and he jerked the stick into second gear and again dumped the clutch, quickly enough not to have to release the gas. his rear tires chittered but held, and he again gained ground on the camaro, but its torque-laden engine pulled it ahead once more. he found third gear, and held his own, but the camaro was slowly creeping away from him and toward victory; its automatic transmission shifted into third, chirping the tires and sending its rear bumper ahead of him completely. he wound out his engine again, keeping pace with the rear of the camaro, and then played his final card - fourth gear. the mellow growl of the volare's small block chrysler engine slowly transformed into a vibrant roar, and the months and years of part hunting, calculating, back-breaking labor and knuckle-crushing wrenching began to pay off. the volare wasn't as powerful as the camaro - not on paper. but everything matched perfectly - the engine's power and range, the gears of the transmission and rear end, even the generously large dual exhaust. the volare crept up on the red camaro, and then shrieked like an angry banshee as it passed its nemesis and thundered on past the finish line. it was an ugly black car, from an unclassic era. but at that moment, he wouldn't have traded it for anything on earth.