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The spectators at the race were as interesting as the cars, their heads turning in unison to follow the racing, their charge of reaction whenever a car spun out. While he watched the race he thought about how people love to make patterns. How they think in patterns. And how this feels good.
The races were great. The always shifting sounds, colour, and movement. The occasional smash and a woman's scream, everyone standing and rising smoke and sometimes even running men on fire, putting each other out with fire extinguishers. Speeding tow trucks and then crews cleaning oil off the track. Then another race, and another. It always started in sun and ended "under the lights". The announcer blared continuously from the tinny-sounding speaker high on a pole, he was good at spinning stories out of whatever was happening. And the sound of the cars: a deep, male roar.
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