Racers: Apollo's Story
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“Exactly. If he hits it hard enough he might blow the line, then he’s out and you’ve got a straight opening to take 4th.”
Apollo blinked his eyes into focus. This would take impeccable timing and accuracy. However, he trusted Casey’s word more than anybody’s about racing strategies. Only two more turns separated the pack from the long straight of the track. The pack screeched around the first one and Apollo got in position next to his target. The turn was coming up which meant everyone was going to hit the brakes. If Apollo could rush his opponent from the left, forcing him to brake harder and in the direction his Racer was defaulting to, he’d lose his brakes and be out of the race.
Apollo saw the red brake lights of the cars in front of him illuminate and made his move. He charged his target, forcing him to brake right. Sure enough, he heard a loud ‘pop’ as he overtook his enemy. Brake fluid sprayed everywhere on the track and the purple Racer pulled to the side, trying to maintain control. The plan had worked. Cheering filled the team’s radios. Apollo sighed with relief at having his teammate back. This would be possible. Not only possible, but a podium was in sight. He sat in 4th out of the pack of 16, with only 14 laps to go.
As a team, they navigated through the few remaining laps. Apollo followed the instructions given to him by his insightful teammate. Mr. Gourami just sat back, anxious at the situation but also proud of the comradery displayed by his team. Casey was glad to be here, but remorseful at his own decisions that day.
It didn’t matter to Apollo that only hours earlier he had been arguing about the betrayal of Casey. Any disdain he had for him before evaporated in the heat of the final laps. After much fighting and struggling Apollo had taken third place. Only three more laps. The crowd began to stand, roaring with cheers and anticipation as a Novice was taking the Tabula Rasa by storm. They urged him on, desperate to see an underdog do the impossible.
In his peripheral vision, Apollo could see the energy coming from the grand stands. His team members were so entranced with the race they didn’t notice the shock and awe in the commentators’ voices over the loud speakers. Racing history was occurring. Even a third place finish by Apollo would shatter the Tabula Rasa record books. Only two laps to go.
“Apollo, you gotta keep the pedal stuck down and push harder than ever,” Casey said into his headset. “Don’t even think about losin’ it now.”
There was no reply. Apollo had deactivated his communicator. All his concentration was placed on the track and the two Racers leading him. They made their way down the long straight once more, but as they began slowing for the turn one of those two Racers began fish-tailing violently. Apollo saw this and swerved out of the way. The third pilot wasn’t so fortunate. The shaking Racer suddenly blew apart, gears and rods sent flying into the wall and even up into the grand stands. His transmission had failed. The flailing corpse of the Racer rammed the one next to him, taking him out of the race as well. Apollo blew past the thick cloud of smoke and almost lost control himself as he ran over small pieces of the wreck. He sped forward. Last lap.
First place. Apollo, the 3-year Novice, was in first place on the Tabula Rasa on the final lap. The crowd lost control. Commentators were screaming into their microphones. Team Gourami was losing it in the Coach Hut. But all was silent to Apollo. His helmet blocked out most of the noise. Adrenaline pumped through his body. Focus was placed entirely on the asphalt ahead of him. Left turn, short straight then right turn. 30 more seconds and the grueling race would be over.
As he carved out another turn, Apollo saw the rest of the pack had lost a couple seconds in the last wreck, putting space between him and second place. Last turn, then progressing on to the last straight before the finish line. That’s all he had to do; keep it hard down, prevent the back end from breaking loose and the race was his. The Tabula Rasa trophy for him and the badge would go on his car, forever reminding the Racing world of what happened this day.
Apollo approached the last turn wide so he could clip the apex as he went around. Walls rose up, enclosing the track on this final turn eliminating the availability of shoulders. He tapped his brakes as he’d always done, slowing the Racer to a manageable turning speed. Still, the grand stands blurred past him. He remained oblivious to the energy coming from the hundreds of thousands of fans in the mammoth stadium. All that mattered was the next five seconds. He entered the turn, steering the red Racer left, aiming for the apex. Suddenly, the screen on his dash and the HUD in his helmet lit up bright red. Alarms resounded in his head. A diagram of the Racer from side view popped up, the rear wing on the image was flashing. It couldn’t go down. Some mechanical failure the computer wasn’t able to decipher.
The rear wing that provided hundreds of pounds of downforce on the straights had tried to descend as Apollo was braking, but got jammed in the process. As Apollo pieced together what was happening in that split second, his heart sank. Going through a tight turn at these speeds was difficult enough under normal conditions, but adding a massive wing that wreaked aerodynamic havoc made it impossible. Combine the centrifugal force, the wear of the last 20 laps and the stress of the turn; the tires didn’t stand a chance. The wing buried the now-thin rubber tires harder and harder into the asphalt. Apollo had no choice but to take the turn because of the walls surrounding him, but that choice cost him his rear tires. They exploded almost simultaneously. All grip was lost between the loss of tires and the skewed airflow. Apollo’s Racer slid as though it was on ice. He turned his gaze from his computer to the fast approaching wall. 146 miles per hour. That’s how fast he had been going when the tires blew. He looked back through the turn, where he could see the finish line painted on the ground. Just then the side of the Racer made contact with that concrete wall at 146 mph. Parts soared. Flames ignited. The pack of remaining Racers sped by, the whine of their nuclear reactors deafening as they screamed for the finish line. But no one cared. No cheers or commentators. Hundreds of thousands of spectators all focused on one spot of the track, where their hope for a change in history lay in billowing, black smoke. Static filled Casey’s radio.
Mr. Gourami and Casey stared from their vantage point, waiting in vain for their beloved teammate to somehow rise up from the crash and walk off the track. But the only thing that rose was the ominous cloud of smoke, rising up into the orange sky. Finally, emergency crews were making their way to the crash site. Their sirens shattered the silence that had blanketed the stadium. No one understood what had happened. They couldn’t, for the cause of such a vast heart-break was indiscernible. As Apollo had raced through the wreck between the first and second place Racers, a small washer, no larger than a fingernail, broke loose during the crash and had gone airborne and lodged itself in Apollo’s wing pillar, making it impossible to retract. But none of that mattered. The last lap was over.
The Tabula Rasa. Sacred ground for pilots of the machines called Racers. The ultimate test of skill, endurance and passion. Very few pilots are invited to attend the event each year, but this year a Novice had been summoned for the first time in history. He had fought hard, going solo which had also never been done. During the second half of the 100th lap, he took first place. Before he could claim victory, however, tragedy struck. His Racer lost control, hurling him into a concrete wall at lightning speeds. Death was instantaneous, but his memory will forever live on in Racing legend. The Racer’s League of America has awarded him a posthumous promotion to 1st Class to honor his achievements. His name was Apollo, and this was his story.