As many of you know, I am vehemently against high speed street racing, but on a rare occasion, I will indulge in a friendly stoplight drag race. The following is a tale of once such rare occurrence. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. I hope you all enjoy.

Ahem...

It was a day like any other. Twenty eight degrees, overcast, and smelling of suburbia. I was in halfway into my morning commute to work in my trusty Neon when I pulled up next to a mid ninties-ish large Mercedes. He took off with authority and caught me off guard. By the times I had realized what was going on, I was way too far behind to try to play catch up, so I figured I'd just let it slide. However, shortly after that fortune smiled upon me as the light up ahead turned yellow, and the tail lights of the Mercedes grew as bright as the setting red sun.

When I pulled up to the younger gentleman he gave me an evil stare that could only say "Your *** is grass, Neon-boy." I retorted with a stare so hard that Jesse Ventura broke down crying wherever he was in the world at that moment.

It was on. Of course it was on...but, what if he thought I was just trying to flirt with him. Considering my ultra good looks (and the fact that I was driving a lavender colored Neon) there was a good chance he might have mistaken me for a butt-pirate. So just to make certain that the race was on, I used proper heel-toe technique to rev the engine with my foot still on the brake, and feathered the clutch with my left foot, causing the car to lurch forward...the international gesture of "you gonna get raped, *****".

The next minute or two were met with intense staring, profuse sweating, and nervous over the shoulder checking for the five-oh. The coast was clear. The humble Neon versus the mammoth Mercedes. American versus German. Not only was my pride on the line, but that of my country. I would not, and could not, let my country down. All that went through my head as my two feet worked their magic on the three pedals was, "You're going down, you **** bastard."

Then the light signaling the crossroad turned yellow, followed by red. The time was near...the time was now. I held my breath and focused my concentration on the red glowing orb up high, in front of me. My hands twitched, and my legs shook. Then it happened. The light turned green. My right foot hit the floor just a nanosecond before I allowed the clutch pedal to slip free from the oppression of my left foot.

The front tires howled and bounced, spinning easily on the salted road. I kept my right foot planted, praying for traction. By the time the rest of the car caught up to the front wheels, it was time to shift into second gear. clutch. shift. slam. Second gear hit like an out of control bus running into my trunk. I was sure I was in the lead, but as I looked over, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. The big bad German iron was right at my door. I had but one trick up my sleeve. I reached over halfway through second gear and turned my radio off. Dave Ryan's morning show would have to wait...I couldn't afford the added amp draw and parasitic loss from the alternator. In the same fluid motion of my hand, I tapped the rear window defrost switch to off. This sent an instant rush of power to the front wheels, and snapped my head back to the headrest. Before long the engine was screaming bloody murder. Time for another gear. clutch. shift. slam. The tires barked against the pavement as the clutch dropped. I kept it wide open for what seemed like forever. The trees at the side of the road were nothing more than blurs at this point. I turned my head to look over at my opponent once more, and all I saw was the Mercedes' fancy hood emblem getting smaller and smaller in my side mirror. I allowed myself to bask in this momentary glory before I saw the light up ahead turn yellow. A glance down at my speedometer showed I was traveling at nearly fifty miles per hour! Was I going fast enough to cut the light before it would turn red? Would I make it? At the last second, just inches from the point of no return, I lost my nerve and stood on my brake pedal. The massive krautmobile at my rear quarter soared passed me, and through the light as it was turning red. My car's locked tires sounded like rabid banshees being skinned alive as the brave Neon skidded to a stop. I watched the haughty, arrogant Mercedes' tail lights diminish into the horizon through the haze of my tire smoke.

"Next time, you son of a *****. Next time." But I knew in my heart of hearts, that there wouldn't be a next time. This was a once in a lifetime race, and I blew it. I took a deep breath to calm myself. It was over. I had to let it go, but for some reason I knew I would not be able to. The Mercedes in the right lane had stolen a small piece of my pride that day...a small piece of my countries pride. I started to sob, which eventually turned into a flat out weep. How could I have let my country down? How could I ever show my face again?

I was about to reach under my seat, pull out the .44 magnum I kept there, and suck down 240 grains of hot lead right there. But just as I was starting to squeeze the trigger I saw in my side view mirror, a Volkswagen Bug. One word popped into my head. One word of salvation. One concept that would cause me to slowly ease the hammer back and stow my side arm in its resting place beneath my seat. When that pink car with the flower pedal wheels came to a stop next to me, and uncontrollable, ear to ear grin came over my face, and I said out loud in a husky, sinister voice, "Redemption."

The End.