The steam was rising in steady streams from the asphalt. It had been an exceptionally warm Spring day, but winter was not quite ready to give up its hold and fought back each night, blanketing everything with its icy, frost chill that creeps into your flesh and nibbles at your core till your arms are flooded with goosebumps and your body begins to shiver involuntary.

Sitting in my car, with the heater turned up, I only felt excitement. My nostrils filled with the smell of hot engine oil and gasoline while my Skylines engine pinged and roared as I feathered the accelerator. Race night.

The night I’ve been preparing for all winter was here. Gone are the days of being hunkered down in my garage. The industrial, gas powered heater turned up full, while tinkering. I hadn’t missed a single screw, nut or bolt. I torqued each bolt to the exact recommended setting as per our underground guide. I wiped each component with a lint free cloth dipped in Carnauba wax to prevent corrosion. And man, do they shine. And I had tuned the ECU every weekend after a full Dyno run with my laptop connected. Oh, the sound of the engine roaring, tyres squealing on the Dyno rollers while the anchor ropes squeal in protest. I got Goosebumps just thinking about it. The result. An empty wallet and what I can only describe as a symphony, played by an Orchestra of handpicked musicians, playing together for no less than eight hours a day for over four and a half months about to perform their debut performance.

Everything I have and don’t have is riding on tonight. The fame, although limited to our underground street racing scene, as barely clad women, shivering from the cold, flock around the winner. Sticking their tongue into your ear while slipping their phone number into your front pocket. Their fingers sliding in deep, brushing intentionally against highly sensitive and volatile appendages while whispering, “call me”, in husky voices and taking selfies. And the winner-takes-all fortune. The opponent’s pink slip.

I was no stranger to the walk-of-shame after having betted on a sure thing and lost it all in a blaze of glory as my opponent’s front wheels crossed the finishing line moments before mine. The gut-wrenching moment you realise that your best was not good enough. That I had not only let down my trusty metal steed, but that it was going to be taken away from me by the victor. Leaving me, the LOOSER, having to find a ride home.

But all that is in the past now. I survived. I bounced back. I bought this little beauty with a seized-up engine because her Neanderthal previous owner skimped on the good, 100% synthetic oil and had bought the cheap, run of the mill crap. BIG mistake. Performance engines need the good stuff, or you’ll find yourself revving her up at a traffic light next to a Ferrari and she’ll respond with a loud bang, followed by depressive silence before you’re forced to get out and push to the accompaniment of raucous laughter from bystanders.

I rebuilt the engine by hand. High performance, Tungsten tipped oversized pistons, new multistage cam, and all the refinements that an underground network of street racing enthusiasts could rattle together. Including all updated, fully hacked, and pirated engine software updates and hacked ECU. I am ready. She is ready. Hell, I haven’t even given her a name yet. All my time and effort spent on her engine, brake upgrades, lowering suspensions and best of all? Tinkering with the ECU. And obviously the Before and After effects from said tinkering. I chucked as I recalled how I had nearly wet myself after the first attempt. I had floored the accelerator and my intestines wound themselves around my spine as my back was forced into the seat so far that I was afraid it was going to snap. All while I smiled. Not voluntarily. But from the force of the acceleration. It had pushed back my cheeks into some type of grimace while the tires howled, fighting for grip, and the cab filled with wondrous, but choking blue smoke that smelled of incinerating, abused and very expensive rubber. I was in heaven, but the tears had not been from joy but from the gale force type wind that was rushing through the gap where the windscreen had been removed. In hindsight, I should have worn a helmet with a visor. Next time.

I am ready, I told myself. We are ready. I glanced across to the passenger side where my laptop lay with its screen displaying data like engine temperature, oil temperature, piston RPM and most importantly, the NOS button. Nitrous Oxide, aka NOS, or laughing gas if you prefer. I had only installed it recently and only tested it once. A short burst that left me looking for teeth marks in my now upgraded, racing bucket seat with its five-point harness. At least my underwear was still intact, just.

But tonight is going to be the real test. A proper burst of NOS, maybe two…or three. Afterall, that’s why I bought the biggest bottle I could fit into the specially designed and installed cavity beneath the passenger seat. I lifted the seat just high enough so that I could slip my hand in and turn the valve to “ON”. The moment I turned the handle I heard a satisfying hiss as the gas filled the pipes ready for the burst that would shoot out six-foot, bright blue flames from both, straight through exhaust pipes and force me back into my seat like a fighter jet pilot engaging full afterburner. Yippee ki-yay…

The tension all around us was building. Countless faces shouting encouragement as I and my opponent rev our engines to the accompaniment of sharp little pings as unused, overheated, fuel droplets explode in the exhaust pipe.

I glance to my right, at my opponent with his supercharged V8 Mustang, that looks like it’s just come out of Fast and Furious movie. How does one even see past that monstrosity of a supercharger? But the paintwork is something else. Unlike mine which still boasts her original sky-blue factory paint job. Mine a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I chuckle. His, a beautiful burgundy with speckles of gold which shimmer in the moonlight. Mine if I pulled this off.

The crowd is now peaking. Arms flailing, bits of salvia spurting from lips. I can hear their screams but don’t hear a word. My focus unwavering on the distant horizon where an oil barrel signifies the halfway mark. A simple U-turn and the same distance back. All you must do is make it back before the other guy. Simple. Even a numb-nut like me can do that. In theory. In practice? Different story. It's all about timing. The moment the designated starter has been selected. I never got involved in that. The ladies have their own process and no way in hell will I stick my nose into their affairs. It’ll probably get bitten off. So, when the designated starter lady lifts her hand with the handkerchief, or in case of emergency, someone’s undies. And let’s go. You must be ready. Ready like a Cobra about to strike. To drop that clutch. Floor that accelerator. Red line, just to double clutch and slide effortlessly into second gear, while keeping the rev’s up and dropping the clutch, simultaneously flooring the accelerator. Repeating as you shift up and the engine bellows and flames shoot three feet long out of your twin exhaust pipes, lighting up the night as you continue to shift gear.

That is the theory until you get to the oil drum. Then the brown stuff hits the fan.

Once again, it’s all about timing. That split second to make the decision whether to brake hard or continue just a smidgen longer and risk going wide. Then comes the slide. A controlled slide. Not hurried. Smooth. Anticipating that sweet spot. The G-spot. The pivot, as you feel the rear start to drift out, feathering the accelerator with your toes because your heel rests on the brake pedal. Then you need to keep that slide going. Gently. Delicately. With a lover’s touch as you again double clutch and feel your gear lever slide into the second gear slot, firmly clicking into place.

Then the exit. The wheels will be spinning, bellowing blue smoke into the air as they fight for grip. But you keep on feathering. Edging that rear around in a smooth, tight, circle until it's time to let go and glide. Feeling the acceleration and the tires bite hard into the black top and the engine erupts with a lion-like roar. The rear of the car will be bathed in an orange-yellow hue as flames shoot out again, making the car appear comet-like from afar.

Then the straight. The longest straight of your life. The headlights will slice into the rising damp that twirl like pillars into the cool night air. Cutting the mist into shapes as they burst over the car to join their friends to form a vortex of funnelled air behind the car as you continue to accelerate and double clutch through the gears.

Then you will see them. First the lights. Then shapes as your thunder toward the finish line where fame and glory and a, new to you car, will be waiting for you. And a sour faced individual slaps a few keys and a pink slip into your hand before sulking away into the night with droopy shoulders and bowed head. Wishing he was somewhere else instead.

I had it all mapped out in my mind. Each muscle twitch that would result in the car leaping forward, its engine screaming as the rev counter is pushed far into the red. Each flick of the wrist that would shift the manual transmission into the right gear before another twitch would release the clutch and force my body harder into the seat while lights and shapes, in the horizon, blur into a single, mottled stream of indiscernible lines.

The moment of truth arrived in the form of a petite young latina whom I didn’t recognize. Dressed in knee high white boots, two inch heels and the shortest of white shorts I had ever seen. I had to laugh as I saw her legs and arms riddled with goosebumps. But true to form, she strode out there in her skimpy white top, positioned herself about forty yards from our roaring cars and stood with her legs wide and left arm placed firmly on her hip and her right arm hanging loosely by her side, her hand holding a bright orange cloth. She swished her middle of the back long, jet black hair through the air,and stared at us with expectant, Bambie sized, hazelnut coloured eyes as our headlights lit up her sparkling green eye makeup. Would she be one of the ladies to drop her hand into the winner's pocket? I wondered.

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I turned my head to the right and my eyes locked with my opponent's determined gaze. His face, not handsome, but attractive in that ‘bad-boy’ way, had an expression of determination. A resolute fire burned in his narrowed eyes. His jaw set. Jaw muscles pulsing under his pale skin. Don’t worry pal, summer will soon be here and your sourcream complexion will soon turn to Beetroot Red, I thought. Mine a more robust, cookie dough, ready to eat, shade. The corners of his lips twitched as he sneered, exposing perfect, rich white boy teeth.

He mouthed something like: “You’re going down”, while revving up his engine so the car dipped to one side each time he stomped the pedal. The engine twisting and ripping hard against the engine mountings, like a caged animal trying to break free. I just nodded and smiled. May the odds be forever in my favour, I chuckled to myself.

Starter Latina stepped forward several feet and drew a line with an oversized piece of chalk I had not seen before in her right hand. Once complete she strutted back and resumed her pose before gesturing to us with her right hand to proceed to the line.

Time to burn some rubber and heat up the tires. I placed the heel of my right foot onto the brake. Hard. While my left foot pressed down the clutch pedal. Butterflies started to do the Macarena in my stomach and I swallowed hard. The first test. The burnout. Stall and you’ll never recover. Race Over. Lost. Nerves shot. Confidence in the toilet and you know the walk of shame awaits. And that’s all on top of the humiliation. If I stalled now, I would be silabit for at least a year. Maybe more. Nobody wants a choker. A never has been. A LOOSER.

I could feel my armpits become clammy. I turned down the heat. Focus time. I slid the gear lever into first gear. It felt solid. Contact made. Then I wiggled my right foot and stiffened my toes. A little stretch and I felt the accelerator. I pressed down gently but firmly with my toes. The engine roared and the car dipped. Good contact. Internal checklist: Foot on brakes? Check. Toes on accelerator? Check. Clutch in and in gear? Check. What else…what else? A red light keeps pulsating in my head. Screaming: “YOU ARE FORGETTING SOMETHING!” Fuck! Handbrake! I felt several streams like rivers run down my back and the little pearls of perspiration on my forehead were turning into large beads which were running down my forehead and into my eyes.

I released the handbrake. Pressing down hard, just to make sure. I feel my confidence shaken, my heart beating at what feels like 200 beats per minute. In my throat, in my ears and trying to burst out of my chest. Crisis averted. I take a deep breath to steady my shaking hands. Only seconds have passed but everything feels like it is happening through treacle. Slow. Draining. Not even my opponent had started his burn out yet a quick glance to the right told me when I saw his expression of pure concentration as he too was going through his mental checklist. I felt some of my confidence return and my hands stopped shaking. Another run through of my mental checklist made me remember another thing I had forgotten. Check that all windows are closed. They are. Too cold outside. As sensational as burn outs are for the spectators, if the smoke blows into the car it will not only choke you but also impair your vision. You never see actors choking on billowing black/blue smoke in movies. Tsha. That’s Hollywood for you.

Feeling a resolute surge, I floor the accelerator and drop the clutch. The engine howls, tires scream and the world goes mad. I feel the rear of the Skyline weave and I press down on the brake pedal for my life. Three seconds. Four. Not too much or the tires could burst. Spectacular and if it happened before any other race but this one, it would probably only evoke mild humiliation and things like that the crowd forgives by the next race. Stalling = Doom. I press down on the clutch and release the accelerator. The wheels stop turning and the Skylines V8 returns to its menacing gurgle.

Next to me, my opponent has also completed his burn out successfully, and we both inch forward and stop behind the starting line.

A youngster who I also don’t recognise, dashes up to the Skyline and checks that my wheels are behind the line before doing the same to my opponent. He extends his arm and gives a thumbs-up gesture. The crowd roars for a moment before falling silent again as everyone’s attention shifts to the starter Latina.

I could see by her pose that she was loving the attention. She was soaking up her limited, fifteen seconds of illegal, underground, street racing fame where every young woman wanted to be her and most guys here wanted to be with her.

She raised her right hand. The orange cloth hanging lipm, without a breeze.

At this point, in the movies, the editor would most likely present a facial close up of both opponents which are locked in a glaring match. That's not me. I look ahead and follow protocol. Eyes front while visualising and repeating what will happen in the next thirty seconds. Like surgeons before surgery.

Latina’s hand opens and the cloth begins to flutter. Almost theatrical it waves its four corners as the air catches the fabric. And I know that every eyeball in a fifty yard radius is staring at this cloth as it completes its journey and the air fills with the sound of roaring engines, screaming tires and the stench of burning rubber.

And we’re off.

All I see is the road. The headlights slicing into the mist. Red line, clutch, red line, gear, drop clutch, repeat. The wheels have stopped spinning. The road is clear and the Skyline is drinking in the cool night air as the engine wine increases and I spot the first signs of the barrel as we thunder along the old, disused army runway.

I spot something crimson flash in my peripheral vision. My opponent. We’re neck on neck. Only ten feet apart. Abreast. Who will break first? Who will be forced to go wide? My mind races with calculations. Speed, distance, break distance, entry angle. Too late. I break. Hard. Release. Break hard again. The Mustang's rear pendulates. It drifts out, toward the left, where I need to be. I let it slide for one more second before yanking the steering full to the other side, sliding the gear lever into third at the same time as feathering the accelerator and dropping the clutch. The engine howls. The inner tyres scream with billowing black smoke pouring from the tires while the outer rear bite into the cracked black top and catapult the rear of the Skyline into a perfect arch and around the drum, missing it by mere inches.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a Burgundy flash. The Mustang. My opponent. The rich kid. But I had timed my break perfectly, leaving him only one option, go wide. Good for me. Bad for him. I contemplate whether to leave the Skyline in third gear or drop down to second and use brute force to and momentum to bring me back onto the straight as quickly as possible without losing speed. Hesitation. Every driver's worst nightmare. One whole second lost. Stick to the Protocol! the voice in my head screams. My eyes dart to the rev counter. Six and a half thousand RPM. Too high already to drop down to second. I would only get maybe one second before having to shift back up again. Hesitation 1, me 0. I missed it. That opportunity to gain a little more grip, straightening out that little bit faster. The Burgundy flash was back. Right beside me. I thought I could hear his evil laughter. Hesitation. Such a rookie mistake. Rule number one: Follow Protocol. All other rules point back to rule one. I dare a quick glimpse at the laptop screen. The NOS button is virtually filling. Around two thirds full. Two more seconds. I throw the gear lever into fifth and drop the clutch. This is it, the final stretch and the most crucial timing point yet. When to burst with NOS? How long to burst before the engine overheats with the sudden influx of heat as the fuel and Nitrous Oxide mixture is overheated and finally combusts as the spark plug shoots of its electric spark and sends the piston hurtling down just to return a fraction of a millisecond later for the next stroke.

Timing. It’s all in the timing.

My hands are white knuckled on the steering wheel. The butterflies in my stomach are doing somersaults. I feel an incessant urge to fart. And my eyes are streaming with tears to dilute the sweat that is pouring down my forehead and burning my eyes. I guesstimate a quarter of a mile remaining. The distance was difficult to judge in the mist. I gleaned at the laptop screen. The virtual NOS button glowed an inviting green. I press the NOS button on my steering wheel without further hesitation. The result is instant. The engine whine shot up to a shrill, ear piercing scream. At the same time my body is forced back into my seat so forcefully that I feel winded. All hell had broken loose and all I could do was hold on tight and keep the Mustang’s nose facing toward the finish line as it surged forward, increasing speed at warp speed. Two seconds. Three. In my peripheral vision the laptop's screen was flashing disconcertedly, but I kept holding the NOS button. Four seconds. Loud, piercing beeps join the strobing laptop screen. Five seconds. I let go. I glanced at the old fashioned speedometer needle which was quivering around the hundred-and-sixty mph mark. I could instantly feel the drop in power as I released the button. The power of the engine no longer that savage, beastly aggression. Returning to a more refined aggression that is brutal with an air of calculated sophistication.

The finish line. Just up ahead. It felt close enough to throw a stone at it and it was coming up fast. But not fast enough. I mistimed. A second or two too soon. A catastrophe. A two second chump. I scream profanities in my head as the Mustang continues to hurtle forward. The line now only seconds away as I see a burgundy flash out of the corner of my eye. Without registering, I pushed the NOS button again. My palpitating heart skipped a beat as nothing happened. I pressed again. Nothing. And the Mustang is still slowing. The speedometer needle now lazily floating over the onehoundred-and-ten line and dropping.

We pass the line. I have no idea who won. It felt like we were connected. Running side-by-side all the way and crossing the line TOGETHER. No winner. No loser.

My mind was spinning as I slowed the Mustang and made a wide U-turn to head back to the crowd who were huddled together in small groups. All bowed. All laser focused on something.

Then it hit me. They were watching back the videos they had all taken at of the race, and of course, the photo finish. This was really going to the wire.

I snapped the laptop screen shut and turned off the NOS before letting the engine idle a little to let the internal oil coolers do the job.

I spotted a figure approach. Miguel. My so-called buddy who is never there to help. He was walking fast, his eyes glued to his phone. I wound down my window and grinned.

‘Hey man, how was that race?’ I spurted out, realising that my hands are shaking and I was coming down from a massive adrenaline high.

Miguel continued to approach. Mute. His expression solemn, but also poker faced.

He stopped by my door and held out his phone for me to see. The screen was paused on a video. It's still picture showing blurry images of my Skyline and beside it the burgundy Mustang. So what? I was about to say when I spotted the right front tire of the Mustang across the line already, with my Skylines trailing by an inch.