Back from vacation and all I need now is a rest.

Cancun was fantastic and absolutely nothing like I expected. I think the heavy rains and wind that accompanied the outside edge of Hurricane Dean swept the streets clean of drunk American teens and their stomach contents, leaving us with a truly beautiful, and extraordinarily quiet Caribbean setting.

We have several hundred photographs of climbs up Mayan temples, abseiling down sinkholes, cave diving and of course tequila-fuelled adventures, but I need to organize these into coherent thoughts before attempting to convey them.

I did come back home to a rather intriguing request to re-write a short story I'd submitted a long time ago to a literary magazine. They suggested a re-write with a change in POV to third person.

I've spent the best part of today turning it around because I really had planned to focus on finishing Mirror Man before the end of the year and leaving the short stories alone until then.

So, here is the re-write. If anybody sees something I missed, there's a Chunky Caramel Kit Kat in the mail with your name on it.

I'm also open to title suggestions because I think this one sucks.

*****

Growing Old with Grace
By
Mike Davis

Exhaust fumes drift on the still air and the scent of gasoline and burning rubber fuels his adrenaline. It’s been a long time since he last experienced this pre-race thrill but he’s confident the nerves will calm just as soon as his gloved hands grip the steering wheel and the lights flash from red to green.

That was how it used to be, but the years and the pounds have piled on since his last race and reaction speeds, like hairlines, deteriorate with time. He’s starting from the back of the grid, so at least he won’t get shunted from behind by one of the new breed of impatient, impetuous drivers.

The mechanics make their final checks and adjustments while he walks the track. Back in the day, he would follow this same routine almost religiously. There’s much to learn from the tire tracks of previous racers - those who chose a good racing line and those who pushed their machines just a little too hard and paid the price. The barriers bear the telltale dents of miscalculated cornering speeds.

The young pretenders watch his every move from the pit lane, nudging each other and discretely pointing. Their giggles are not borne out of confidence though. They seem a little unnerved, as well they should; they are in the presence of a master.

The mechanic gives him the thumbs up. “You’re good to go.”

Slipping the white cotton balaclava over his head, he climbs in to the idling machine. It’s time for more pre-race routines: safety harness buckled; crash helmet on; chin strap fastened; visor down. He revs the engine hard; three short roars from the beast signaling that he’s ready to roll.
Taking his place at the back of the starting grid, he notes with pride that the nerves have indeed faded.

The ‘Ice Man’ is back!

The lights flash from red to green and it’s obvious his reaction speeds have suffered very little; he makes up one place right from the go. The first few corners are a blur and as they come around for the long straightaway he’s right up on the next car. They touch wheels briefly bringing an annoyed twitch from the other driver.
Watch and learn, kid!
It’s all part of his race strategy - stick on their tails like glue and harass them into making a mistake. Before long the plan begins to pay dividends. Number eighteen gets out of shape going into the chicane and he screams up on the inside, taking the racing line and another place closer to the leader.

This is too easy, he thinks, the helmet concealing his maniacal grin. The young guns with their loud-mouthed bravado and cocky swaggers have nothing that comes close to countering the experience of a cool-headed tactician.

Five laps in and he’s made it up to second place. The lead car, number Seven, is driving well, holding the racing line and remaining unflustered by his ever-looming presence. They’re locked in battle, turn after turn, circuit after circuit, until the marshals indicate the start of the last lap.
It’s now or never, he thinks, steeling himself. Time to make my move.

As they streak toward the last hard right before the final straightaway, he doesn’t ease up on the gas. Car number seven slows and they make contact. Still he doesn't let up, forcing his rival out wide. Number Seven’s brakes lock and puffs of rubber smoke waft up from the wheel-wells.
Screaming past on the inside, the old master takes the checkered flag, fist pumping the air in a triumphant salute that echoes his glorious past!

In the pit lane, he climbs from the car, removing his helmet and bracing himself for the inevitable recriminations. Losing a race can bring out the worst in a driver - so he’s been told!

“Dad! You Suck!”
“Yeah Uncle Danny, you made me crash into the wall!”
“Welcome to the real world, Kids. This is Go-Karting, not Playstation. And I am still undefeated. I am the Champion!”

He makes a ‘Loser’ sign on his forehead with a thumb and forefinger and runs towards the podium, taking his place on the winners stand. His wife, sitting in the spectator’s gallery, shakes her head in despair.

“What?” he asks, his voice raising an octave. “They laughed at me!”
“They’re 13 year old girls!”
“They said I was too heavy and my cart wouldn’t be able to keep up but I think they learned a valuable lesson here today!”
“Yes. I think they did,” she says, leading his daughter and nieces to the ice-cream kiosk.
“Hey, maybe tomorrow we can go Paint balling!” he calls out, chasing after them.

THE END