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Rated: E · Fiction · Steampunk · #2221000
A bit of writing about a minor event and a minor character- WIP
After the dust had settled, the grizzly remnants of the incident were a sorry sight. Beneath the smouldering mess of the Eleanor lay the mangled corpse of Bo Jensen.

Today was just not his day.

The weekend had already started in a sequence of shambolic events, rivaling the Edinburgh Farce of the previous year, in which heavy snow and a coal supplier scandal caused a three hour delay to the race. Today was a similar occurrence. The decision to move the Manchester race to early March was baffling. Heavy rain was always predicted for this time of year, and to the surprise of no one, the heavens let loose all weekend. The Locodrome was drenched.
To add to this headache, the coal scandal had resurfaced. Although Shipman, Jones & Company, a fine upstanding colliery, was now the sole supplier to the competition thanks to the incarceration and eventual bankruptcy of their competitor, a sudden surge in demand for coal had left them completely dry. They were unable to supply and ship the vast amounts required for a Grand Prix. What resulted was unorganised chaos. A frantic scramble from teams to source enough fuel for the event caused yet more delays.
Friday's heats began under Safety Engine conditions. After many laps of tame racing, the pundits cried for more. The stately pace was a far cry from the usual pandemonious symphony of steel and billowing plumes of smoke. Instead, the roaring crowds were served a lumbering display of incompetence, orchestrated by a lack of foresight from the Board of Directors.
Bo was in the third heat,on Saturday. His season so far had been lackluster, perhaps one of the world title defenses in the history of the sport. Over his illustrious career, Bo had accumulated three championship titles, the most from any pilot, and a truly astonishing feat to have survived so long. But after two retirements and a 6th place finish in the first three races, his spark was gone. He had been having technical trouble with Eleanor, his faithful locomotive, all season due to changes in the regulations for the 1856 Races. It was something about limiting the size of the crankshaft pins in relation to the flywheel… or some other technical bumf. Bo didn't care for all this nonsense, that's for his engineers to work out. He was a megastar, not a reclusive boffin, why should he be concerned with “regulations this” and “National Engine Racing League specifications that”?
Bo secretly loved the limelight. On the surface, he did his level best to maintain his demure Danish demeanour, but beneath the stoic exterior, he was as giddy as a kipper whenever he stepped out to greet the adoring crowds. Geared up in his race suit, a fetching combination of a gunmetal grey tunic, burgundy bandana and navy churidars, he aimed to make quite a statement. Even in these trying times in his otherwise successful career, Bo took great care of his personal branding.
Either by divine intervention, or possibly sheer dumb luck, Eleanor held up for the heat, and took Bo to the Finals- His best placement this season. The four winners of each Heat Race would compete on Sunday in the final race in the hope of clenching a victory and snatching up precious points for the championship bid, a phenomenon Bo missed dearly. This might be a turning point in his season, perhaps the mechanical kinks have been quelled. Perhaps his luck was returning after all…
Sunday arrived with a vengeance. A veritable monsoon cascaded down upon the city, stirring suspicions that the race might have to be cancelled. However, after Friday's fiasco, the Directors ordered the race to continue. They were keen to please the spectators, so there was not a safety engine in sight. The pilots trundled up to the starting blocks in their titanium titans, wheezing and spitting with anger. The freshly stoked fires cackled as the cylinders unleashed great gusts of steam, aching with the strain of the superheated boilers.
On Pole Position was Graham Thompson, the smug prick from Gloucestershire with a neat tendency to always pip Bo to the post. Behind him, Burl Nichol, a truly unremarkable specimen whose participation in the sport came purely at the courtesy of his rather wealthy family and not by any inherent talent or skill. In Third, sat Georgie McNab, the young rookie who made quite a name for himself when he burst upon the scene with his eccentric actions, both on and off track. Finally in fourth was Bo, slightly less confident than usual.

-A few notes about this piece.
-This is what I have so far, it remains unfinished.
-Im struggling to think of how to describe the race and crash.
-Feedback highly appreciated, both on writing style and ideas.
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