Slalom Through the Spoke Shadows

Staging lane opened up into a wide stretch of fresh, dark tarmac between parked delivery vans. Broad yellow painted grid lines marked out clear speed corridors. I hammered full throttle instantly, rubber tires whistling against the smooth surface. Midway through the lane, a discarded strip of red reflective tape and three flat plastic cable clips formed a tight staggered line. No tapping the brakes. I snapped hard left, sliced through the first clip clearance, threw my chassis into a fifty-degree drift across the yellow stripe, and rocketed out clean into the sunlit apron.