SPIN CYCLE

SPIN CYCLE


Faster than Earnhardt, Gordon or Johnson, my Honda Accord races around the tightly spinning inner wall at three laps per second.  From nowhere, a Schwinn-driving, gingham-clad girl swoops down, cutting me off.

"Beat it, old man!" she snarls.  "Closed track!"

Startled, I awaken.  Seriously weird dream.  An announcer's voice, dismay casting shadows over each syllable, breaks through and demands attention.  He intones unthinkable news, "We repeat: In light of current tornado warnings, race officials have suspended your Daytona Five Hundred until further notice."

Disappointment manifests itself as desultory clicks on remote control buttons, but only mindless drivel remains.