Tuning the Grandstand

The track was marked, but an official speedway needs real seating. Right next to my chalked lanes, someone had dropped a heavy rectangular chunk of red cedar firewood. I squared my boots in the dirt, wrapped both hands under the splintered edge, and put all my back into it. With one massive heave and a rough scraping grunt across the gravel, I flipped it straight upright on its flat base. It thudded down solid, right beside lane three. I hauled myself up onto the flat top, crossed my arms, and took a look down the whole stretch. Total command view.