Red Barchetta

My uncle has a country place
That no one knows about
He says it used to be a farm
Before the motor law
And on sundays I elude the eyes
And hop the turbine freight
To far outside the wire
Where my white-haired uncle waits
Jump to the ground
As the turbo slows to cross the borderline
Run like the wind
As excitement shivers up and down my spine
Down in his barn
My uncle preserved for me an old machine
For fifty-odd years
To keep it as new has been his dearest dream
I strip away the old debris
That hides a shining car
A brilliant red barchetta
From a better, vanished time
I fire up the willing engine
Responding with a roar
Tires spitting gravel
I commit my weekly crime...
Wind
In my hair
Shifting and drifting
Mechanical music
Adrenalin surge...
Well-weathered leather
Hot metal and oil
The scented country air
Sunlight on chrome
The blur of the landscape
Every nerve aware
Suddenly ahead of me
Across the mountainside
A gleaming alloy air-car
Shoots towards me, two lanes wide
I spin around with shrieking tires
To run the deadly race
Go screaming through the valley
As another joins the chase
Drive like the wind
Straining the limits of machine and man.
Laughing out loud
With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan.
At the one-lane bridge
I leave the giants stranded at the riverside
Race back to the farm, to dream with my uncle at the fireside