When rubber collides with dirt it shoots a brown cloud into formation, into life, and into a circle. It’s a living storm that rises from the ground in thunderous bursts at the explosive tails of the dueling chariots.
All eyes are drawn to the spectacle of the men behind the wheel. Some are friends, some are neighbors, some are fans, but all are family. They know the family names of the men behind the wheel, one of which is Robinson and when they recall the name they see a blue car, a truck, a trailer, a crew at work in a salvage yard, and a neighbor with a white barn. They see J.B, the father, a contributor and a volunteer whose love you can feel
from a greased handshake. They see him in a moment that spans the time it takes him to crack open a beer. His boy is beside him, standing barely above his waist. In the next moment they see the man, but only in the grown boy he left behind.
None of them could see the disease. Now they see Kent in the driver’s seat and feel his loss as their own. Sometimes you put your hand on the wheel other times the wheel just ends up in your hands.