He quickly knew there was no hope of overtake at this point, yet still pushed harder.

With each passing lap, he closed in upon first place.

Each time he passes by, blowing gusts of wind in his wake.

Barely able to catch your breath in anticipation of what’s to come.

The metal machines flying by, nose to tail as if linked together by invisible forces.

Side by side, neither wanting to relinquish any sort of advantage as they wind around the track.

The screeching howl of metal on metal as they make contact.

Yet still, they refuse to yield until, whoosh --- over. Engines purring as they slink slowly around the twists and turns, waiting for confirmation of either glory or failure. That last flag ends the intense game of charades, each movement, each choice, each corner a new risk.