III. Speedway in Holy Week

It was a sombre meet at Belleview Speedway this Monday. Black figures huddled around a bunch of flowers in the middle of the circuit. Slowly, they trudged back across the track; muddying their good shoes. They withdrew to a grassy bank opposite the grandstand, under trees newly in blossom. This was where he liked to stand, and watched the race go round and round.

A word about speedway. Four racers, two from each team, skid round the dirt oval in four laps. This happens a dozen times. Points are divvied up, averages meted out, remainders carried over. You’d think the checkout ladies and painters-and-decorators all had maths degrees. But I’m being unfair. I told myself that, for Tony’s sake, I’d keep an open mind.

It had started to rain, and the fresh leaves weren’t keeping us dry. It’s just not proper mourning if it doesn’t rain. Providence has a sense of theatricality. The party walked slowly back to the shelter of the grandstand. Again, it’s just not proper mourning if you don’t walk slowly. It’s easy to see why he chose to watch from the green verge; the grandstand was plastic, grey, fluorescent, concrete. He’d stand there, in a better place, watching the racers go round; the interminable circuit of humanity, the interminable roar of destiny.

He had died on the track the day before; painting the starting line. Working free of charge, he had died giving your average gear-head a Genesis, and a line to judge himself by. Old Book and New. The minute’s silence was marred by some of the checkout ladies and painters-and-decorators, discussing the team’s chances, and by the loudspeaker, which was picking up Pussycat Dolls on the radio.

Every day, a tragedy. Every day, self-sacrifice. Every day, something greater than ourselves.