The Great Summer Panoramic Pacific Drag Race

Between the curves and under the hood.

Brandon Lightfoot grinned as he smashed the accelerator with his foot, basking in the glorious sunlight reflecting off his aviator sunglasses. He threw his left arm out the side of his rolled down driver’s door, feeling the warm breeze slapping against his hand.

He gazed out onto horizon, seeing nothing but endless road that was Interstate 5 in northern California. Not a single other vehicle, not even a trucker, was in sight.

All was well.

Everything, except for one. Rather than feeling the roar of his old 1967 Camaro’s 350-cubic-inch V-8 engine, he sat behind the wheel of a 1994 Buick Century. His beloved classic was out of commission after losing a midnight contest to a fellow racer. He was fortunate the wreck hadn’t totaled her.

The Buick, loaned from a friend, was a bitter substitute in his eyes. Nevertheless, he’d rather be seen joy riding in it than be confined to home on such a beautiful summer day.

Just as he was beginning to ease up on the accelerator, he heard the distinct sound of another car engine approaching from behind. A motorhead as much as a racer, he knew engine noises like bird calls.

He looked to his left and blinked several times in disbelief. Moving precisely parallel to him was a cherry red 1968 Camaro in pristine condition. Even without the roof, the driver was difficult to make out completely, but he could tell it was a young woman.

A redhead.

He increased his speed. The Camaro answered, pulling ahead before turning into his lane so that it was directly in front of him. In the mood for some fun, he got into the left lane and drove up alongside the Camaro.

Abruptly the Camaro came to a stop, the smell of burnt tire filling his nostrils as he quickly slammed on his brakes. Reversing, he drove back to where she had parked in the middle of the highway.

Getting out of his car, Brandon leaned against the hood of the Buick as he took a long look at the girl. Golden red hair. Navy blue eyes that matched her leather jacket. Pale skin, with a row of freckles dotted in a straight line across her upper face. Barely concealed behind the tastefully unzipped jacket was a figure he hadn’t seen since high school calculus class.

“Nice headlights,” he said.

She glanced at the Buick, then smiled at him. “The car was my grandad’s. He gave it to me when he died. I’m taking it to a car show down in Redding.”

“I got the 67’ myself.”

“Why aren’t you driving it? Performance issues?”

“Kind of.”

“Does that happen a lot when you drive?”

“If you race a lot, your car’s gonna need maintenance eventually.”

“And this is your backup?”

“Not as far as you’re concerned.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t have a problem keeping up with you just now.”

“You consider yourself ‘fast’?”

“Depends on my mood.”

“You should see me when I got all cylinders firing.”

“I’d still be faster.”

“Let me pop your hood to inspect the engine, and I’ll decide that.”

She raised herself up in her seat as she grinned mischievously, turning so that she faced him directly. Forget high school calculus. He hadn’t seen a figure like that since his college trigonometry course.

“How ‘bout we race right now,” she said as she pointed to a sign off in the distance, roughly a mile or two away. “You beat me, I’ll let you do all the inspecting you want.”

“If you win?”

She offered a playfully smug look as she shifted into first gear. “If?”

He pushed his aviators firmly against his face as he jumped back into the Buick and revved the engine. He then took off abruptly, glancing back to throw her a teasing look as he practically flattened the accelerator against the floor. Behind him, she accidentally stalled the engine and had to shift back into neutral before going to first gear again.

He had the edge. The Buick maneuvered like a Sherman tank, but its weight gave it momentum as it sped down the highway. In front of him, the sign signaling the end of the race grew closer and closer. The redhead was catching up, now up into fourth gear.

But it was simple physics. Too much distance and not enough time.

He had it.

Suddenly he heard the worst noise in the world as the check engine light lit up his dashboard like a small nuclear explosion. The engine abruptly died, and the Buick coasted along as the redhead quickly sped by. Stopping precisely at the sign, she got out, wearing a lily-white skirt. She then stuttered to the back of the Camaro and sat on it with bared legs crossed.

“More performance issues?” she called out. “Your pistons not firing? A worn crankshaft, maybe?”

Brandon promptly got out and headed to the back of the car. Pushing with all his strength, he managed to get the Buick moving again. The redhead leaned back as she watched open-mouthed with quiet excitement while he gradually moved closer to the sign. Panting heavily, he gave it one final thrust and brought it parallel again with the Camaro, then collapsed with exhaustion against the side of the Buick as the redhead studied him hard.

“I’m staying tonight at the Panoramic Pacific Hotel in Redding,” she said. “Have the tow truck driver take your car there. We can then pop your hood and see what’s wrong.”

“I thought that was only if I won,” he said in a gasp.

“No, that was regarding my engine.”

She then hopped off her Camaro. Taking out a card with her name and number, she slowly slid it into his front shirt pocket.

“But I’ll still let you,” she said. “I like a man who doesn’t quit until he reaches the finish line. Even if the girl gets there first.”