The huge behemoth that was his combustion engine waited, guzzling up diesel as if there was no such thing as the greenhouse effect. His V-12, twin-turbine engine gave off an almost deafening growl. What it lacked in manoeuvrability it made up for in pure power. His hand twitched, his hand reached coolly for the cold hard shaft that was his gear stick, he was keeping the nervousness he felt inside of him as if he were a world-class poker player. He was ready.
The light cycle started – red. He had been waiting for this moment for what had seen to be an age. Amber. Glistening, a droplet of sweat condescended down his forehead, finally resting upon his brow. Green.
The wheels tore away, as if circular saws with the way that they ripped apart the road from underneath all eight of them. A split second was all that was needed for him to change from first to second gear. He ploughed along the slightly downhill straight, eating up the roads often-dirty roads like it was a cat high on catnip.
The swoop from second to third gear was immense and as he became more settled he wondered about, and mocked, the people he had once attended secondary school with. People who would rather than go out and earn a living decided to go to college. He smirked to himself as he thought of them stuck, stranded in their sweaty, stuffy classrooms learning about something that they would never use again. All the while accumulating an Everest of student debt. He now smiled as he thought of the way that he was now getting paid for the one thing he loved, driving.
The long, red body of his machine whizzed passed the surrounding paraphernalia, only to leave a lasting impression of a big, red blur for all onlookers. Man and machine lurched evermore forward. He saw from a distance the faint resemblance of a chicane in his circuit.
He spun the wheel first a sharp left. The chassis groaning like a tortured ghost giving birth whilst it was flung around the chicane as if it were a racecar. He spun the wheel back for the right turn of the chicane that the smell of burning rubber could be smelt. From his driving gloves. He was worn out from his encounter but once again he could see through his designer sunglasses another hurdle in the distance- a ninety-degree turn.
He had to slow, change back from third to second. Then he spun. He spun like a potter at his wheel. The back of his vehicle swung-out. Nearly wheel spinning as it arched round.Then, just as he thought he was doing all of this in record time he heard that all drivers of his profession loved to hate, DING! DING!
‘Bus stopping at next bus stop, please stand well clear of doors.’
G.C.S.E MEDIA COURSEWORK MICHAEL ROACH
