I live for Speedway Racing
The human voice blared from the loudspeakers, “Gentleman, start your engines.”
The person sitting in my cockpit flicked up some buttons on my dash and I feel my favorite juice flow into me. Yes indeed, speedway racing gets my fuel pumping. I am about to go get my tires all hot and sticky.
My name is Snooks and I’m on this earth for one reason. The humans built me for speed and then built roads for me to race on. I still can’t get over how great all this is. Please pinch me and wake me up from this dream…no, wait, lights, cameras, action.
LET’S GO RACING PEOPLE! The humans like to wrench on me and paint me colors, but I don’t mind. People pay big money to haul me around between races in a really cool trailer. They give me the best energy drinks; high-octane race fuel, synthetic oil transfusions, new parts, and the best car doctors in the business to work on me.
Then the green flag drops and it’s on. As the pace car peels off, I find my nose just inches from the bumper of my competitor. I am itching to go but I must be smart. The driver in the cockpit has my life in his hands, but if I stay in good shape and I’m responsive to his needs, we can get the job done. I’m a fine tuned athlete; my compression is high and I’m running at almost 8,000 RPM. I have unsurpassed machined internal organs and roll on the finest nitrogen-filled Goodyear tires in the
This race is long, but with the help of the humans in the pit box, I maintain my handling and my traction on the asphalt surface of the speedway. Racing is my damn life and I live for this! I’m gonna’ bump draft this car in front of me and pull right up around him, a nice slingshot move past his butt. Just haul ass and work for position as we use all my technology. I find my rhythm and fly past that car with a can of Budweiser painted on the door.
As I take the pit row exit at a nice slow 55 mph, sliding into my slot, I gulp the race fuel. The pit crew jacks me up my right side to change my tires. They do it again on the left and give my track bar a quick adjustment. 14.4 seconds and I am out of the gate again. The bozo running in front of me only took two tires. He will regret that strategy. It’s all timing and my ability to stay together under intense pressure. If my driver pays attention to what I tell him and he doesn’t put me in the wall, we will win.
I’m crossing the finish line now and I see the checkered flag in my face. The loud speakers blast, “Snooks takes the 500 for the second year in a row!” I light my tires up going in circles and showing off my stuff, my thick tire smoke bellowing everywhere. Ahhhh, my speedway racing day has been tremendous… Damn I love this job.