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With the Blink of an Eye
As you look into his eyes, you don’t see a man with fear in his eyes, but a man with vengeance in his eyes determined to cross that finish line first and only first. Sweat rolling down his eyes brings him to the point of desperation, only waiting and waiting for the signal for him to release all the madness out on his opponent.
From behind the black, nylon rope in the pit area, members of a small crowd brace themselves for 45 seconds of hell. A cheek-rattling boom nearly knocks them back a step, but they lean into the roar as if it were the wind. The sound sharpens, piercing through earplugs, forcing fingers into ears. A cloud of thin, gray smoke slithers about their kneecaps as invisible fumes stab at their eyes. But they blink them and cover them with their hands, somehow keeping their fingers in their ears. The weaker ones and those with small hands, stagger backwards.
As the fog thickens, shadowy figures continue to peel away coughing, crying, gasping for air. Those who remain bury their faces into their T-shirts as the acrid stench sears their nostrils. But covering their mouths forces them to uncover their eyes and unplug their ears.
Drag racing is a passion that is indescribable to some people and what they eat, drink and sleep. From the day their born they’re brought up in the racing world, only knowing that it is what they want to be when they grow up. Nobody can change their mind, because it is a dying passion your ‘re born to love. Daryl Chance experiences this every weekend whenever he races at Franklin International Drag-strip.
This day was special in part because Daryl was going for his 15th consecutive victory in a row, amazing to some because he had outlasted the previous record by six wins. As Daryl checked his car with his crew vigorously, to make sure the car ran to great perfection. Those few second he would run the track had to go as smooth as possible for him to achieve a victory. In those few seconds anything could go wrong and going the speeds that they reach one bad break would spell disaster. The cars accelerating down the strip faster than an F-16 on takeoff, keeping just enough sense about them to throw the chute when they cross the finish line. But with vibrations being thrown off by 7,000 horsepower engine , the slightest human error could send the car into the wall.
Each heat begins once conditions are hot enough for maximum traction. Drivers smoke tires in a burnout while workers blow-torch the track surface. The opponents slowly roll their cars into the designed area, lightning the top of the Christmas tree. Then each car inches forward, another half-foot, triggering the next set of lights. The [next page]