Why do I deathrace?

Amy Banuelos tightened the straps on her helmet. She checked them, then checked them again.

Ever since Old One-Eye hit that wall at 90 in a Vampire, she always triple-checked the helmet. The medics said death was instantaneous. Because his straps were loose.

“Amy, you don’t have to do this you know.” ‘Earl’ Hickey leaned in the window. “The lads all trust you.”

“That’s not true and you know it, Earl,” Amy shot back. “They chose that hillbilly as their leader. He’s all testosterone and stupidity. He’ll get us all killed.”

“If winning a few races is what it takes to convince these bozos that courage is not all you need to be a good leader, then goddamn it, I’ve got to win a few races.”

Earl heard the resolution in Amy’s voice. “Well, you’re locked and loaded, and I’ve tweaked this baby as much as I can. Give ‘em hell, Banestorm.”

His words were drowned out as the engines of fifteen cars surged with power.