... ... ... untitled ... ... ... (a drag race) ... ... ...

The Top Fuel dragster sat silently in the pre-race area. Waiting, expectant... its long, sleek body and highly-polished chrome reflecting light from the floodlights lining the track. A huge Ford ute lurked near it, behind and to the left; seeming somehow placid and reliable held up to the dormant torpedo of the dragster.

Members of the pit crew, conspicuous in their team shirts, milled about the track. Talking to the driver, performing some enigmatic task near a back wheel, looking at the track surface. Some just wait, knowing that their job is both invisible and utterly indespensible; there is no more to do until after the run. Their calm somehow heightens the atmosphere of contained explosion.

Tinny speakers ask the crowd to stand for the national anthems; Australia, America and Great Britain. Nobody really listens to the songs, they simply keep watching the start area. As the music fades away, a minor nuclear blast signals the ignition of a pair of Top Fuelers.

Assembled fans give an excited yell as the cars crouch behind the start line, absently spitting fire. The drowning waves of engine noise bounce off the surrounding countryside for what seems an inordinate amount of time before the engine tone deepens and the sleek demons rumble forward to the racing surface. The cars are almost casual in the way they scream through vapourised rubber and nitro fumes, flicking forward in the friendly brinksmanship of burnout before being reined back by the crew.

The crowd seems just a few horsepower short of beserk as they stand on their tiered seats to get a better view of the start line. The cars creep slowly into stage, twitching awkwardly in their attempt to travel a few inches instead of a quarter mile. The mild hysteria of high tension pulses through the veins of thousands, adrenaline threatening to split through flesh membranes and spray the bitumen as the paired white lights shyly blink into life.

Too fast, the following five seconds seem far longer than they actually are; before slipping away too quickly, hanging in the air like mist. The Top Fuelers laugh through four-foot flame as they catapault past the seething crowd, elbowing through the air in their attempt to beat each other to the zebra-striped finish line; victory in lighting up their own winners' light, slung under their scoreboard.

11-08-96