Up on the 90.
The servos in his leg braces whined with the strain of forcing down the accelerator.
He could hear rivets popping out of the roll cage supports as the IRIS Field struggled to hold the vehicle together, the ricochets around the cab making him glad for the heavy driving suit he wore as part team colours, part safety precaution.
Normally the shattered instrument panel would be a worry, the stud - like missiles had made a right mess of quite a few dials, but at this stage of the race he didn't care as long as he was still going forward and still going fast. He'd long switched off the warning klaxons and was ignoring the expletives from the garage techs cursing the mess he was making of their car.
Like almost all drivers, Chuck was of the the opinion that it didn’t matter who built it, or who even owned it, it wasn't really their car. She was his and he was hers, a mutual belonging where neither was whole without the other, each one the other’s sole purpose of existence.
The warning glow of the one working red bulb bathed the cab in the same red mist he could almost see behind his one working. A paradoxical calm had settled though as he now drove purely on instinct and the final rhythms of the race played out.
The next corner was a long, banked curve and he exhaled as the G forces pulled him down into his seat, the dampeners struggling to counteract the bone crushing force. The car itself sighed, decelerating ever so slightly, as it diverted power from the engine into the protective field cushioning its driver.
They were now driving on the vertical, the road hanging up at 90 degrees for just over a mile of bank. Centrifugal physics battled with the sheer mass of the rig and the hub thrusters kicked in, jetting out short bursts to balance any downward motion of the car and stopping it from sliding back onto the road proper.
Last edited by Cacklad
on Fri May 18, 2018 4:48 am, edited 1 time in total.