America's Race


They come the World over,

This time of year.

To breathe the nostalgia,

With high tech gear.


To savor burnt rubber and raw alcohol,

The whine of hot engines,

With the sharp edge of danger,

Deep in their intestines.


To fine tune and tinker,

Analyze and more.

Going by the numbers,

And keeping score.


They gather in the infield

Like a family tradition

For beer and barbecue

To greet a Mars mission.


For the bricks of the old oval,

Have not seen the likes of this,

Speeds beyond reason,

Pushing the envelope into bliss.


Not down home again,

Without a care,

Pedal to the metal,

To meet the dare.


Of the wall approaching,

At two hundred and ten.

No time to worry,

Just downshift again.


And defy the wall,

One more time,

Hold it together,

And keep the pace.

Too fast you lose.

Smooth and steady,

Wins the race.


And when it's all over,

And the stands are bare.

With a thunderstorm pending,

In the warm summer air.


You can still hear,

That immortal refrain:

"Gentlemen, start your engines."

Just before the rain.


As the rising wind,

Blows paper across the track.

You soak up history for a moment,

Then don't look back.


Copyright 1999 (c) Ronald W. Hull




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