The Race
In the sunburnt sprawl of the Arizona desert, two friends—Paul and Eric—decided to settle an old debate the only way they knew how: with a race. It wasn’t an ordinary race, mind you. It was the race, complete with a makeshift track stretching a hundred blistering miles, a desert party planned at the finish line, and a crowd hungry for thrill, tacos, and tequila.
Helping them organize this showdown was Charlotte, a quiet observer of life and people—a wise woman with eyes that always seemed to sparkle with a secret. What neither Paul nor Eric knew was that Charlotte had a trick tucked neatly into her leather satchel and a lesson waiting at mile 80.
Paul was the road’s golden boy—sharp reflexes, a polished car that gleamed like a trophy, and a mind that approached every turn like a strategic move in a grandmaster’s game. Nothing escaped his attention; every detail was inspected, every risk assessed. Truth be told, the race only came to life thanks to Paul’s drive, his knack for planning, and the long list of connections he could summon with a single call.
Eric was his opposite. A charming mess of a man whose car looked like it had survived five apocalypses. He drove with heart, not precision. His ride was older than most jukeboxes and made a sound like a coffee grinder falling down a flight of stairs. But Charlotte had a soft spot for underdogs.
The race began at 6 p.m., just as the desert sky turned tangerine. As expected, Paul shot ahead, his engine humming like a symphony. Eric lagged behind, coughing up dust and shaking his dashboard like it owed him money. The crowd roared, food vendors grilled with fury, and gamblers placed wild bets. Spirits were high, and so was the music.
But Charlotte wasn’t at the party. She was already waiting at mile 80, where she casually scattered a handful of tri-pronged nails across the dirt road. A small act of sabotage, yes—but one meant to level a very uneven playing field.
Paul was the first to reach the trap. His tire hissed, then slumped. He slammed the brakes and stared in disbelief. He had never changed a tire in his life. He popped the trunk, searched for the jack, fumbled with the sleek, modern hubcap that refused to budge. The sun dipped lower. Paul’s frustration climbed higher.
Then, from behind, came the coughing, sputtering approach of Eric’s rusty chariot.
Just as Charlotte planned, Eric hit the nails too—pop. But unlike Paul, he didn’t panic. He’d changed more tires than he could count—on the road, in the rain, once even on a hill. His old car was simple. No hubcaps, no nonsense. Just six bolts and a wrench.
While Paul wrestled with his over-engineered car and cursed at the instruction manual, Eric calmly changed his tire with practiced ease. He glanced over, gave Paul a nod, and even offered him his tools. Paul looked up, a mix of frustration and reluctant admiration on his face—as if to say, you got me, well played. With that, Eric overtook him and drove off toward a well-earned victory.
Eric won the race—by a mile and a metaphor. The crowd went wild, Eric laughed until he coughed, and Paul... well, Paul stood beside his car with a shattered hubcap and a bruised ego.
At the post-race party, no one talked much about who won. People were too busy dancing, drinking, and reliving the chaos with laughter and half-true retellings. But a few curious minds still asked Charlotte what really happened out there.
She just smiled, sipped her drink, and said, “Let’s just say experience comes in different shapes.”
Somewhere near the stage, Paul stood with a drink in hand, watching Eric tell the story for the fifth time—grinning, animated, surrounded by strangers who suddenly knew his name. Paul chuckled to himself, shook his head, and muttered, maybe it’s time I learned to change a tire. Then he raised his glass to no one in particular and let the music take it from there.
Toni Font Bardolet 22/08/2019, Aberdeen.
