Here they come. Whoop, there they go. They're gone. These circular tracks are just clever as heck. With the finish line slapped down on the loop just any old where, like it matters a damn.
These races got it all, don't they? Got it all. The winners and the losers, a little wreckage, adoring fans, all these sponsorships with big-time corporations, the trophies, some birdies in bikinis paid-in-full. Yeh, got it all. Ain't quite entirely life itself, but wouldn't be wiser to elsewhere if you never been outside the racetrack.
Those other racers out there, they're racing this race. And after this, maybe they stay in some hotel, but then they're racing them other races on other tracks just like it. This race, that race. Not Astolfo Febretti. He doesn't compete with other men. He's motivated unlikely.
My cousin-in-law Tad is in the know. He sells the beers at the races and gets all the stories. He says he heard Febretti made a pact with the Devil. Febretti gave it all up to be the fastest man alive. But that fool Febretti don't know you can't never be the fastest man alive. You ain't never the man you just was.
Maybe the Devil was being all devious and mischiefy, interpreting Febretti real literally. But I don't think Febretti knew for a damn what he wanted before he put it in words.
Didn't give Febretti what he wanted, exactly, of course. Told him how to get it. The Devil says the secret was to get rid of all that extra weight. And the Devil said he could help Febretti rightly. Just advice, he promises, You're in control, Astolfo.
So it all can stand a change. Starts exercising good, off come sixty-five pounds of lethargy and pork. Gives up wearing denims and leathers, races nude. Shaved his golden hair, all off his head, his lip, his forearms, his -- well, right. Got some engineer types, built himself something real aerodynamic, looks like a black swan getting sucked into a blacker hole.
Starts fasting before races, two pounds lesser. Gives him a little clarity of minds, meditation. Weight and drag exist everywhere, he thinks. Gives up the wife, gives up the mistress, gives up the kids, gives up the parents and grandparents, gives up the fans. Gives up his belief in winning or losing. Gives up his belief in laws of physics and the speed of light. Gives up on being the fastest man alive.
What if he ever caught the speed record, I wonder to myself. What's he going to do with all that nothing he's been racing around with? His life is gone. He cannot win it all back, he can only replace it.
Not a thing in the world stopping him. Febretti's just the thought of winning these days. Fast as all heck. He don't even race any more. Wins every time in none of the races.
Here they come again. Whoop, there they go. Circular tracks, clever as heck.
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