![]() ![]() But there was no time for colour commentary. With each tour, more cars stalled in the middle of the track, either from mechanical failure or fear, lending an apocalyptic aesthetic to the dusk-hazy racetrack. I talked our way around the first bend, weaving through a tangle of cars dawdling on the shoulder, then along the ensuing straightaway, over an orphaned bumper ("What was that?" "Nothing!") I talked Ryan down from 45 kilometres an hour, around a four-car pileup: "Left, right, centre, slow down, brake, go."īut Ryan, the one in control, was the real hero when we finished our first lap alive - and then another, and then another. "We're going?" Ryan asked, his voice muffled.Īs Ryan, who teaches literature at Capilano College, would notice later, coaxing a blind guy through a car race requires an almost Joycean stream-of-consciousness: "Left, slight left, little more left, centre, more centre, okay, right - right, right! - slow down! - BRAKE! HOLY CRAP, BRAKE!!!" I was his eyes on the track, and any pause in my voice left Ryan in the dark. ![]()
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