Faster than Earnhardt, Gordon or Johnson, my Honda Accord races around the tightly spinning inner wall at three laps per second. From nowhere, a Schwinn-driving, gingham-clad girl swoops down, cutting me off.
"Beat it, old man!" she snarls. "Closed track!"
Startled, I awaken. Seriously weird dream. An announcer's voice, dismay casting shadows over each syllable, breaks through and demands attention. He intones unthinkable news, "We repeat: In light of current tornado warnings, race officials have suspended your Daytona Five Hundred until further notice."
Disappointment manifests itself as desultory clicks on remote control buttons, but only mindless drivel remains.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.09 seconds at 11:54am on Nov 21, 2024 via server WEBX2.