Per Book
"I bet I can make it."
"I bet you can't."
Steve McDonald took another swig of hard rye and leaned his elbow on the bar, wondering if he really could.
"It's all bullshit anyway," he said. "The highway is just a highway. Just asphalt and a dotted line. There's nothing magically dangerous about it. A couple of bad curves is all. My car'll handle it."
Dan Mitchell looked him in the eyes.
"Want to make a bet of it? Put your life on the line?" Dan flung a quarter on the table and watched it spin precariously before flattening itself out on the bar.
"Bet?" Steve's eyes narrowed. He considered the idea. To bet on one's own life. Now that would be a bet on himself, laying his driving skills wide open on the white line.
"Sure I'd bet my life on it. Now what about you then?"
Dan picked up the quarter and stuffed it in his denim pocket. "I'll bet someone's going to die if we try it."
"Getting scared, Dan? Or maybe you don't have the driving skills you once had in high school. Yeah, just maybe your reflexes are a little slower these days."
"You're full of shit," Dan retorted. "I have the reflexes of a cat."
Steve gulped the rest of his drink and slammed the shot glass face down on the bar. "Okay, so you're in then."
Steve saw a nervousness sweep across Dan's face. U.S. 187 was an old highway. It was an abandoned highway. New in the 1950s, Route 187 hadn't been driven in years. The State of Wyoming had declared the old road off limits in the early 80s leaving the 100 mile stretch to the perils of decay and the overgrowth of weeds. No one drove U.S. 187 anymore. Not ever. And people told stories. Some said the road was haunted. Others said it was poorly engineered by the government. But all agreed that a cruise on Route 187 meant a high probability you'd come out the other end in a body bag. Over the years, only a handful lived to tell the tale of what they'd seen. And what they told seemed incredible.
Steve snapped his fingers in Dan Mitchell's face, zapping him out of a near catatonic state. "Relax, Dan. The stories you've heard about 187 are myths. They are, how shall I say, bullshit?" Steve ran his finger along the bar in a zigzag as if running a miniaturized version of the infamous road.
"It's only a highway, Mitchell. What we really need is to get more people if we're going to make it a true road race. A real challenge among men and machines."
"This is insane," said Dan. "I swore I'd never do this."
"You can do all the swearing you want after you complete the run. First one out the other end wins." Steve made a closed fist at Mitchell, rattling it at him like a saber. "And you can bet the first one out'll be me."
"Not so fast," said Mitchell. "My Z28 Camaro will seriously hamper your rush to the finish line. I put a cross-ram intake manifold on her so now she's faster than fast. If I choose to run this thing, I'm running it with my bowtie on."
Steve's face flushed at the thought of Dan's Camaro outrunning his Ford to the finish line. He had to counter that boast and said, "My Mustang will shut you down long before you reach the halfway point. Your overconfidence will go up in blue smoke as sure as your engine burns oil."
"Classic Chevy-Ford battle," said Dan, his mood lightening and his mind temporarily forgetting the peril of the highway..................