The Desert Circuit

My red and black dune buggy swerved mercilessly along the bumpy desert sand. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, striving to regain control and straighten its wayward path. It wasn't long until I got my buggy back under control, speeding up again as I watched the sand fly up into the sky. In one swift motion, I took my gloved left hand off the wheel, quickly adjusting my full-face helmet that had been jostled around.

As both of my hands gripped the wheel again, my mind fixated on the prize money—a hefty twenty-five grand for the first-place winner. This was the most significant race I've ever competed in, and I couldn't afford to make a mistake. Despite the intense focus, the silence and isolation of the race worried me. Fifteen minutes in, and I hadn't caught sight of another competitor. The solitude unnerved me, leaving me unsure of my standing within the pack.

I could feel the early afternoon sun setting in, the heat beating down on me as my long-sleeved compression shirt started to feel wet with sweat. The hydration pack strapped behind the seat taunted me, its cool contents beckoning for a sip. With the race stretching on and the unrelenting sun, the temptation to grab the water tube and quench my thirst grew stronger. I knew I had to be strategic when it came to my water consumption, especially if the blinding sand got any hotter during the race, but I needed a sip. With limited control, I succumbed to the need and took a few savory sips of the smooth liquid.

I continued speeding down the makeshift track laid out for us, my eyes fixed on the distant horizon. No intention of searching for other racers; my entire focus was on the sandy track ahead. It was just me and the road, nothing else mattered. Up ahead, the outline of the checkered line became faintly visible, signaling the approaching finish line once again. As I drew closer, I could see several bystanders clapping and cheering, most of them adorned with bandanas and thin tops to combat the heat and sand particles swirling around. The grand marshal waved the white flag as I crossed the line, signaling one lap to go in this 5-lap race.

I remained uncertain about my current standing in the race. As far as I could tell, no one was ahead of me, but in the heat of the competition, my memory could be deceiving me. Two hours had passed since the race began, and I pressed my foot down harder onto the pedal, pushing my buggy to its limits. If I wanted to claim that prize money, I knew I had to test the capabilities of my trusted vehicle. She might be a bit older than some of the other racers' buggies, but she still rode like a dream, and I had faith she could secure the win with me. Surprisingly, I spotted a vehicle in the distance. I tried to recall if the racer was in first place or trailing at the back. Uncertain, I attempted to pass them anyway, just in case they were my competition for that coveted first-place prize.

It didn't take me long to pull alongside them. A quick glance revealed the vibrant orange helmet on the racer's head. I knew that helmet; it belonged to none other than Howey Mitchenson, a familiar face in these dune buggy competitions. I was certain he hadn't passed me earlier; I would have unmistakably remembered that. With caution, I eased up on the throttle, slowing down just a smidge. I didn't want to risk any foolish mistakes that could result in losing control and being out of the running.

I maintained a steady pace, my heart pounding with the realization of how close I was to securing the win. A victory of this magnitude would undoubtedly propel my name into the spotlight, establishing me as the next dune buggy racer to beat. The prospect of fame, along with the prize money, fueled my determination. Glancing at my left-hand mirror, I noticed a competitor closing in on us, their purple and yellow colors standing out against the orange desert backdrop. It was Joe Piston, my biggest rival. Despite being the new kid on the block, he was swiftly becoming the star of off-road races. Cocky as he was, I couldn't deny his skill—remarkably good, and a formidable opponent.

With no time for contemplation, I swiftly decided to accelerate once again. I floored it, pressing the pedal below my foot to the floor of the dune buggy. It might not have been the wisest move, but allowing Joe to pass me would likely mean losing any chance of effectively keeping up with his brand-new beast of a buggy. As I sped up, I made the unwise choice to glance at my mirror again. Amidst my flustered emotions and erratic thoughts, I momentarily forgot about Howey, who was close by. Tearing my eyes away from Joe, my primary concern, I found myself drifting toward Howey's buggy. I tried to correct my error before colliding with the back of his left side, but I ended up hitting a thick mound of sand. The impact sent me careening across the track and into the vast desert. Despite my best efforts to regain control of the wheel and rejoin the track seamlessly, it was evident that my run was over.

My buggy flipped viciously across the sand. After three barrel rolls, it finally came to a stop, miraculously upright. Boiling with rage, mostly directed at myself for making a rookie mistake, I slammed my hands against the steering wheel several times. Taking a couple of long, steady breaths, I worked to calm my nerves. There was no point in getting upset; what happened had happened, and there was still a chance to place if I hurried. I turned the key in the ignition, and my trusty vehicle roared back to life. As I turned the wheel slightly and pressed down on the gas pedal, my buggy lurched forward an inch before I saw sand flying up in my side-view mirror.

I tried once more, only to achieve the same unsatisfactory results as seconds before. Frustration bubbled within me as I hopped out of my vehicle, speed-walking to the back end. My tire was fully lodged in a deep mound of sand, sinking even deeper into the soft terrain. The situation worsened as it became apparent the tire was also leaking air. Finishing the race now seemed impossible, especially since I had recently detached the spare from the back of my buggy in hopes of lightening it for a speed boost. Realizing my run was officially over and that I wouldn't even place, I kicked my tire furiously, connecting with it in the wrong way and injuring my foot. I grabbed my throbbing foot, collapsing onto the burning desert sand as tears streamed down my face.

I wasn't embarrassed by the temper tantrum I was throwing in the middle of the desert. The costly error I made shattered my chances at a grand prize that could have been life-changing. Now, I'll likely become nothing more than a laughingstock at every race I attend in the near future, assuming I decide to ever race again. I continued my sulking, watching in the distance as other contenders drove past on their trek to victory. The weight of my mistake pressed down on me, leaving me feeling hollow inside as I continued to sit there against my tire, wallowing in self-pity.

Soon the engines of the passing racers faded away, leaving me to my lonesome. Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.