Race to 4th
The deep crackling rumble of fission reactors ripples all around me. A distant roar reaches my ears from the frenzied spectators. I feel a palpable disconnection from them, bordering on resentment. I will never understand their passionate commitment to live vicariously through the racers. If they had any balls, they'd jump in a capsule of their own and hit the track.
And then there's this underdog bullshit. Not a single person inside or outside of a capsule can even begin to calculate the odds of one racer over another. Each racer brings a lifetime of experiences, skills, and emotions to each and every second of the race. Not to mention luck. No matter how experienced or inexperienced a racer may be, there is always the illusive, seductive and fickle lady luck. Whichever racer she decides to sleep with for the night will be exalted as having faced tremendous odds and triumphantly overcome them.
Although I guess the reason this sport has always seemed like a frivolous parade of dick measuring and fanboy drama is because I have always had a vastly different agenda than simply sport. Ever since escaping the A.I. factory as a young boy, I had joined the resistance with my uncle. When my uncle, the engineer, and I, the fighter, heard rumors of an outpost of freedom fighters in the 4th dimension, we knew we had to try to reach them. Racing is simply a means to an end.