Greaseball had awakened on the beach with the fresh morning sea breeze. Somehow it was not the same for him today. There was almost a presence in the air. He fired up the Chevy and drove the 20 miles back to the station, opened the overhead and pulled the car into the bay. Greaseball had a routine that always assured him, made everything better on days like this one. He set the rack under the Chevy and pushed the hydraulic handle against the stop and the car rose smoothly into the air. He turned on the radio and listened as Del Shannon sang "Runaway." Slowly and meticulously he inspected the chassis. He'd changed springs, shocks, added sway bars...but the Impala was never a match for a Vette in the tight, winding climb to Deadman's Curve. But he knew he'd be able to hold his own on sheer power and acceleration. He might be trailing a bit at the Curve, but that final two mile run on the straight would be his equalizer. It always was.

He liked Blondy, even with all the putdowns, because he too was a rodder and the unspoken pact across the cigarette the night before had cemented the strange friendship that develops between rivals. After a careful adjustment of the tire pressure, he lowered the car and went about hooking up equipment under the hood. The mill was old for a street racer. Greaseball wished there had been time to put in the Rat he'd just finished. He'd have to get one more good run out of this one.

He checked the Mallory Dual Point dwell and did a check on the timing. A few minor adjustments to the AFB's and an inspection of the blower belt and he was ready to go. He kicked the rack away underneath and backed the car out. He locked up and headed back toward the beach.