Popping the clutch I felt the midget lurch, throwing me forward in the cockpit; the engine coughed, then sputtered, and finally roared to life. I felt my heartbeat quicken.

Shifting to second gear I steered the midget toward the field where years of test driving, to balance the suspension, had created a sort of makeshift oval, maybe an eighth of a mile around.

I thrilled to the sound of the engine, the power at my feet. I approached the turn and cranked the wheel to the left and felt the car begin to slide; still I kept my foot on the gas. The turns were tight and the straights short, so I wouldn’t be able to get up to third gear let alone forth, but I didn’t care. It felt as if I was doing a hundred miles an hour even if I was only doing maybe thirty.

I came off the turn in the grass and pointed the car back onto the packed dirt and headed for the next turn. I negotiated this turn better and I could see Vince and Eddie off in the grass, jumping up and down with their fists pumping. I saw their lips moving but heard nothing over the sound of the engine; grinning, I imagined a whole throng of fans cheering my record-breaking speed.

Lap after lap I drove, each one improving my technique. I could’ve driven all night, or until I ran out of gas; but the engine had other ideas. After twenty or so laps at high rpm in low gear I burned a piston. A moment later I saw flames licking out from under the cowling. Then the engine lurched and I came to a stop.

I unbuckled myself and climbed out of the midget.

“Holy shit!” One of the twins said as they both ran up next to me to watch the fire burn itself out.

“What are you gonna do now?” one of them said. I think it was Vince. He tended to be the more vocal of the two.

“We,” I said, “are going to push her back into the barn.” As if that was going to hide from my dad the truth of what happened.

Back in the barn the twins bid a hasty good night and left me to inspect the damage. The windscreen was covered with oil and the paint on the cowling had blistered from the fire.

“Shit,” I said.

I spent the rest of the evening fretting over what Dad would say when he got home. Worse, what he’d do to me. He’d never before raised a hand to me; but then, I’d never done anything so bold or risky. This was going to cost—time and money—and I had a feeling it was going to cost me, too.

Eventually I went to bed but I couldn’t sleep. A little after two o’clock I saw through my bedroom window the headlights of Dad’s pickup. A minute later I heard the creak of the barn door open. A few minutes later he came out of the barn to mutter something to my mother. Then, much louder, I heard, “Goddamn!” Then I heard Mom say, her voice carrying in the early morning air, “Don’t be angry with him,” and I silently thanked her for coming to my rescue.

When I heard the back door to the house open I rolled over to face the wall and feigned sleeping. I heard his footsteps cross the kitchen, come down the hall; the floor outside my bedroom door creaked and I felt my dad’s eyes on me. A moment later I heard him sigh and go back outside to get the other midget into the barn.

The next morning I didn’t catch nearly the hell I’d feared. In fact, I caught no hell at all.

“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” Dad said. “Not unless I’m around.” There was no hint of anger in his voice. “This one’s on you,” he added. “I won’t dirty my hands, only supervise.”

I grinned. I knew Dad could no longer resist getting elbows down greasy when it came to working on an engine.

And then, as if he were resigned to what the future held, he said, “And one more thing. If you want to race cars for a living, always make sure you drive the best equipment.”

My grin broke into a full smile; I looked at Mom, who, with a smile of her own, only nodded.