Hahn’s heart skipped a beat during the gearshift from fourth to fifth. His face sent through the back of his skull as Troy firmly planted his foot to the firewall. Gripping the seat with his sweaty palms, Hahn smiled uncontrollably underneath his helmet as he watched Troy thread the turns as if the car were glued to the circuit. As he walked up pit lane, Hahn’s nostrils were filled the familiar pungent scents of burnt tires and ethanol, his ears filled with the roar of Japanese tuner cars racing around the circuit while his eyes were firmly fixed on the Sutton Brother’s Nissan S15 sitting in their pit garage. “Who was that piece of shit driver you were out with?” asked a croaky voice from behind. Upon turning himself around, Hahn was met with the short, stubby and quite well known face of John Boston. “Troy, of course?” replied Hahn. “And who exactly is Troy, because if this ‘Troy character is to drive that badly again, I shall be speaking with the track marshal’s to have him removed from this circuit!” again said Boston. “Troy is my dad John, so you had better watch what you say”. . “That man isn’t your dad, the man was Asian, which explains the bad driving but let’s be honest, you look to have about as much Asian blood in you as a Holden Commodore” exclaimed Boston with a content smirk on his face. With that sly racist remark, not only was Hahn ready to roundhouse kick Boston through the nearest cinderblock wall, Hahn knew he was yet again, going to have to explain his life story to another in complacent racist douche-bag that really wasn’t worth Hahn’s two cents. Troy wasn’t Hahn’s biological father, his ‘step father’ many would say, Hahn didn’t know his biological father, not that he couldn’t, it was just Hahn decided he didn’t want to know him. “I see, well just watch yourself on that track” and with that gesture from Boston, he was gone, as quickly as he had appeared. Back in the garage, Hahn crawled back into Troy’s pride and joy, his royal blue Nissan S15. The passenger seat was Hahn’s place to be although forever dreaming of the day he would be able to drive it. As he sat their clipping in his harness, Carey, Hahn’s uncle poked his head in, “you ready? Troy’s keen for this go! So you had better strap in tighter than usual” Yelled Carey, as to make sure he was heard of the idling of the 500 kilowatt engine. Hahn looked over to Troy’s already smiling face, “let’s go!” Again Hahn’s face was cemented in an uncontrollable grinning position that was hidden by his helmet once again. His insides were sent from side to side, front to back just like the fuel in the fuel tank as the car thundered through turn nine and Troy’s foot again hit the firewall of the car sending them thundering down the back straight towards the hairpin of turn ten. Hahn replayed the sequence in his head, brake, heel bump the accelerator to get revs and downshift. Again, brake, bump of the accelerator with the heel of his right foot, downshift and around the hairpin of all hairpins. Hahn knew that corner just as well as the next man, but nobody else navigated that turn or set up as well for that turn as Troy. And everything that Troy knew, Hahn knew, they shared everything. They returned to the pits, and Hahn turned to Troy again, both of them grinning big and breathing hard. They both crawled through the skeletal like roll-cage and out of the car. Walking to the workbench, they mirrored each other. Gloves off. Helmets off. Head sock off. Ear plugs out and undo race suit and tie around waist with a drink of their overpriced Gatorade from circuit café.
Walking to the race control building, Hahn again heard a smart arse racist slur from a familiar voice. Hahn was again faced with John Boston’s pasty complexion as he turned around. “Tell Troy that he better not cut me off again on the circuit otherwise a dint in his rear quarter panel will be the last thing that ching-chong China-man will have to worry about!” Filled with rage, Hahn breathed a deep...
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