By Benjamin Powell.
1,000 RPM.
Angelica gripped the steering wheel intently. She focused only on the steady, rhythmic thumping of her heart, and the low growl of the idling engine. The needle on the RPM gauge sat calmly at a thousand. The car’s powerful cast iron heart was resting, waiting, mirroring her calm demeanour. It was twenty minutes until the race, but she wasn’t going to leave the car. She didn’t want anything to break her concentration.
She cast a glance at the unnatural void where the passenger seat once was. All the seats were gone, save the one she sat in. The car was stripped bare to remove any excess weight that might slow her down. In its current state, it reminded her of when she first laid eyes on it.
They had found it at the wreckers, a smashed-up rolling shell that didn’t look like it would ever grace the road again. It was just a year older than Angelica, but it had taken quite a beating. It wasn’t so obvious, but she was a shell back then too.
She bought the car not long after she started attending car meets with Harper.
Their very first night out was novel and fascinating, if overwhelming. They wandered around an underground parking lot, shuffling through throngs of petrolheads to peruse all the mutated vehicles on display.
Knock-kneed wheels splayed out the sides of colourful cars so low they looked like their bellies scraped the ground. Huge bonnet scoops, riveted panels, fins, lips, and wings were bolted to every surface like body parts haphazardly grafted together. Some of these contraptions even spit fire from their exhaust pipes. The deafening roars of engines and pulsating basslines from boots packed with speakers made the walls shudder.
Angelica was bewildered at the sight of it all—an entirely foreign ecosystem hidden away in this concrete cavern. Harper explained that most of the glamourous-looking mods served no real purpose beyond peacocking to the other men who strutted around. At one point, a particularly obnoxious engine scream rang out across the car park.
‘Overcompensating,’ Harper chuckled.
The whole night, Angelica had clung to her friend’s side, not leaving it for a moment. But when they got home, she was practically jumping up and down, asking when they could go again.
2,000 RPM.
Glancing idly at the clock on the head unit, Angelica realised just how much time had passed while she was lost in thought. The race was rapidly approaching. She put the car in gear and commanded it forwards, one hand guiding the wheel while the other rested comfortably on the gearstick. Her pulse started to quicken. She allowed the adrenaline to flow, tapping into the vexation that had been smouldering in her chest for months.
She felt at home amongst the high-octane pandemonium. It was oddly comforting; a welcome respite from the mindlessly compliant stop-start-stop-start traffic of the Melbourne suburbs. Tonight, it was finally time for Angelica to join the ranks of automotive enthusiasts who tested their mettle in the crucible of street racing. There was no room for mistakes. She wouldn’t entertain the possibility of losing. The buy-in was expensive, definitely not the kind of money she could afford to throw away. Not that she was here for the money.
She approached the start line of the makeshift drag strip, set up in a deserted industrial district. A crowd of boisterous spectators surrounded four other cars, which grumbled side by side in the centre of the road. The gathering parted for her as she rolled through, eyeing her ride with surprise. She slowly pulled into the lineup, like a frigate with its cannons loaded, ready to commence a broadside attack. She looked to either side, sizing up the competition. They didn’t know her, but she knew all about them.
One car worried her more than the others. The Commodore. There were many of its kind, but it was distinguished by blood red flames emblazoned over black. It also sported a windshield banner that boastfully claimed a lofty title: King of Dandenong. A legend amongst the local police.
Chevy badges had replaced the Holden insignia, brazenly lying—Aussie-made machinery masquerading as American, like a little boy imitating his older brother. Inside it was a fearsome seven-litre “elephant” engine, an oversized heart shoved cruelly into the ribcage of a native Australian species.
Angelica eyed the self-appointed “king” with derision. Japanese craftsmanship always appealed to her—she found no kinship with those who touted “good old American muscle”. Numbers and comparisons ran through her head for the ten-thousandth time. Torque, power, boost, revolutions, top speed, acceleration. But the time for calculations had passed. It was time for action.
3,000 RPM.
Angelica revved her engine slightly, but it was drowned out by the thundering chorus of the other racers, each stomping on the gas pedal to showcase their unique brand of ear-splitting bravado. The onlookers cheered, egging on their favourites. Last-minute mental preparations ran through Angelica’s mind. Her headlights gazed resolutely down the track. The finish line was just four hundred metres away, marked by a pair of orange cones. The ground was slick with rain, reflecting a mesmerising neon mirage from the multicoloured lights all around.
She had always liked the rain, but never had she welcomed it with such feverish satisfaction. In fact, she had prayed for rain, reaching out to the God she once knew for just one fervent request. The all-wheel-drive system of her Nissan Skyline would grip the slippery asphalt much better than the other cars, powered only by their rear wheels.
Her Skyline’s fresh coat of midnight purple had never been put on display before tonight. It was the finishing touch that signalled Angelica was finally ready to race. The beautiful paint job was now covered in an even blanket of tiny water droplets, more streaming down the windows. Below the animated cheers of the gathered crowd, she could make out the muffled pitter-patter of raindrops on her roof. She tried to focus on the rain, tuning out the spectators. It was a familiar and welcome sound.
When they had first met, Harper was labouring away over a hunk of metal in her carport while a storm raged outside. The wrench-wielding woman had turned to notice a teen gawking rudely from the footpath outside. Trees were bending in the wind, but the drenched girl was unphased.
‘Hey,’ Harper called over the pounding of the rain. ‘You alright out there?’
The greeting was met with a quiet mumble from Angelica. She shifted awkwardly in place, her eyes flicking towards Harper’s work bench.
‘You want to come in?’ Harper offered. ‘See what I’m working on?’
Angelica gave a simple, sharp nod.
Moments later, they stood together, rain drumming on the tin roof overhead. Angelica examined the greasy hand held out by Harper in welcome. Harper was unlike any woman she had ever met. There was something intangible about her that Angelica found intriguing and compelling. From the moment their hands clasped firmly together, Angelica was a loyal disciple. Her curiosity turned to obsession, and she became insatiable in her desire to learn more about cars and what made them run.
For five years she had thought of nothing but engines and wheels. She soaked up information like a sponge, absorbing far more than she ever had in a classroom. She didn’t miss school one bit, and certainly didn’t miss her old classmates. She was never really one of them.
4,000 RPM.
Angelica’s car growled menacingly in response to a press of her foot. Her heart was pounding, her eyes burning.She could never escape from bittersweet memories, even in her lawless utopia.
Her attention was drawn to a man who swaggered past her car, towards the centre of the empty road. He was sporting a leather vest and nothing but tattoos to protect his arms from the cold. Five sets of ravenous eyes were glued to the flags in his hands. He stopped still, bright headlights fixing him in view. Angelica watched through her tinted windshield. The inside of the Skyline was dark, the tint guarding it against the intrusion of light and vibrance.
There used to be a smattering of tiny LED lights that twinkled on the roof. They had always reminded Angelica of warm nights with Harper, and the friendly stars that watched over the pine-laden hills cradling their neighbourhood. She would hold a torch, watching in fascination as Harper worked dextrously on various bits of machinery.
‘What’s wrong with the diff?’ Angelica asked. ‘What is a diff, anyway? Where do we get replacement parts? All the way from Japan? Oh yeah, and what’s the difference between twin turbo and twin-scroll turbo? Is five seconds fast to go zero to a hundred?’
Harper waited with patient amusement for the question bombardments to stop before trying to respond. Though she was only ten years Angelica’s senior, she seemed to have endless catalogues of information flawlessly memorised.
The star lights on the Skyline’s roof were gone now—abandoned under a tarp with all the upholstery. The car was gutted like a turkey, removing anything that would interfere with its singular purpose.
The race-starter raised his flags, smirking as he savoured the anticipation hanging in the air. Angelica blinked back her tears, blocking out the past. The only things that mattered were the flags, the cool plastic of the gearstick against her palm, and her feet ready on the pedals.
5,000 RPM.
The flags dropped. Angelica’s brawny metal brute leapt forward, doing exactly what it was trained to do. A thousand hours of painstaking labour took effect instantly. Screeching tyres drowned out the cheers of the mob, and the smell of burning rubber invaded Angelica’s nostrils. Her hands and feet moved fluidly, driven by instinct and habit. The car responded quickly to her every impulse, operating in perfect symbiosis with its driver.
Her white-knuckled hand clutched the steering wheel, the acceleration pinning her against the seat. The Nissan Skyline was informally known as Godzilla. “The monster from Japan.” After years of repairs and mods, this gleaming purple monster had far surpassed its original performance. It ripped through the night with terrifying speed.
6,000 RPM.
The engine screamed as the beast clawed its way down the track. The road was clear on either side of her, and Angelica grinned as she imagined the dismayed faces of the other contenders.
Her eye twitched as she suddenly remembered the way Harper used to pretend to let her win in the valley near home. She would slowly drop behind in mock defeat, her unassuming Subaru Liberty seeming to falter. Then the brawny supercharger would rocket her towards the end of the drag strip. The flat-six engine was unique, understated and pleasantly surprising. Just like Harper.
7,000 RPM.
The turbos stuttered as she shifted gears, and Angelica’s pulse jumped erratically. She could see the other cars gaining on her. She began to panic. Her eyes darted between the road, the mirrors, and the gauge cluster on the dashboard.
The rev gauge was nearing the redline, tempting her with unchecked power. She had only milliseconds to decide whether she would play it safe or throw caution to the wind. The wads of cash she handed over before the race flashed through her mind. She pressed the pedal to the floor.
8,000 RPM.
The Commodore was neck and neck with her as they hurtled towards the cones. Angelica’s foot was planted firmly on the floor, her body pinned flat against the seat, arms outstretched. She and the vehicle were extensions of each other, flesh and iron operating as one. Her six-chamber mechanical heart beat fiercer than it ever had before. Pistons slammed in her chest, sparks igniting the blood within her. She wouldn’t let this moment be taken from her. Harper had been taken away, suddenly and unfairly. She couldn’t stand any more heartache.
9,000 RPM.
Angelica flew across the line, less than a car’s length ahead of the Commodore. She slammed on the brakes and the car decelerated. She felt a rush of surprise, relief and exhilaration making her head spin. She let out a manic, uncontrollable cackle. This was the first time she’d felt fully alive since Harper’s death.
The car rolled to a stop, and she noticed plumes of smoke rising from under the bonnet. She felt a pang of empathy for the machine, pushed to its absolute limits. But she had emerged victorious, and the wounded metal creature was finally allowed to rest. She twisted the key, and the deep, steady note coming from the engine trailed off. The beast’s heart flatlined.
0 RPM.
She sat in silence, alone in the stark, hollow cabin. Adrenaline still coursed through her veins. Prismatic lights danced in the mirrors, and she heard a frenzied commotion back at the starting line. She knew the crowd would be anxious to meet the new champion. She did what she had set out to do, beating the best of the best in a stunning upset. She’d really done it. It was over. She knew her mentor – no, her best friend – would have been proud beyond words.
But she didn’t know what to do now. There was no next step. The build was complete. The big race, years in the making, was finished. The smile pasted on her face began to fade. She began to tap her right foot lightly on one pedal, then the other, then back again. She was suddenly, nauseatingly aware that there was nothing ahead of her, no great ambition to fixate on and fill her time with. There would be other races, but they lacked all meaning now. She had to think. She had to come up with a new goal. She closed her eyes, trying to slow her thoughts and steady her shaky breathing.
She remembered when the mangled steel frame first arrived at her house. Seeing a tow truck dump it on her doorstep, and realising the mountain of work that lay ahead, she was all but convinced that she had made a horrible mistake.
‘I know he’s a fixer-upper, but don’t worry, he’s got plenty of life left in him,’ Harper beamed. ‘A car only dies when you stop working on it—caring for it.’
And so, the work began. Angelica’s overgrown backyard became a scrapyard, filling with all manner of parts and pieces. She and Harper spent every spare moment together—planning, fixing, adjusting, test driving. A few years later, the once-decrepit car was completely unrecognisable. And so was Angelica. The timid, lonely shell of a girl was gone, replaced by a confident and determined woman. Angelica had always been hard to understand. But right from the start, Harper always saw who she really was, and who she could be.
Angelica slowly drifted back into the present. With her eyes still closed, she became aware of the strong metal structure that embraced her. Harper had worked with her on every centimetre of the machine, and she was still alive in every panel, every clip and bolt, every cylinder, and every gear. In the tools she left behind.
She opened her eyes, noticing a few small whisps of smoke still emerging from the hood. The Skyline needed to be fixed. That was a start. Angelica couldn’t imagine letting her most prized possession fall into disrepair. And selling it off was unthinkable. The winnings from the race would be more than enough to repair the damage. She could even add in a few tweaks and upgrades.
She looked around the cabin with fresh eyes, noting the exposed metal where the seats should be, and the featureless roof. She would reinstall the lights, and restore the interior to the way it once was. She didn’t need a relentless racing machine any longer. Maybe she could even start to enjoy driving again, without the need to go ever faster.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then, decisively, she reached for the key and turned it. The creature rumbled to life once more, vibrating contentedly. She smiled, placing one hand on the wheel, and the other on the gearstick.
1,000 RPM.
