“Whatta you boys wanna rent this crappy old track for, anyhow?”
The octogenarians examined the dirt oval near Odum. The track itself was in terrible shape, deeply rutted from decades of hosting racing events and eventual abandonment.
“Our fathers drove here in the thirties. They were bitter rivals when endurance racing was the rage. Their final contest was stopped 190 laps in by the Labor Day hurricane of 1935—the only race ever canceled here due to inclement weather.”
“There’s a wager to settle. We’ll finish when one of the vintage Fords or one of the antique men stops running.”
100 words. For this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:
ParkInkSpot 