| My uncle has a country place, |
| That no one knows about |
| He says it used to be a farm, |
| Before the Motor Law |
| On Sundays I elude the Eyes, |
| And hop the turbine freight |
| To far outside the Wire, |
| Where my white-haired uncle waits |
| Jump to the ground |
| As the turbo slows to cross the borderline |
| Run like the wind, |
| As excitement shivers up and down my spine |
| Down in his barn |
| My uncle preserved for me, an old machine — |
| For fifty-odd years |
| To keep it as new has been his dearest dream |
| I strip away the old debris, that hides the shining car |
| A brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time |
| Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar |
| Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime… |
| Wind in my hair — |
| Shifting and drifting — |
| Mechanical music — |
| Adrenaline surge — |
| Well-weathered leather |
| Hot metal and oil |
| The scented country air |
| Sunlight on chrome |
| The blur of the landscape |
| Every nerve aware |
| Suddenly, ahead of me, across the mountainside |
| A gleaming alloy air-car shoots toward me, |
| Two lanes wide |
| I spin around with shrieking tires, |
| To run the deadly race |
| Go screaming through the valley as another |
| Joins the chase |
| Drive like the wind |
| Straining the limits of machine and man |
| Laughing out loud |
| With fear and hope, I’ve got a desperate plan |
| At the one-lane bridge |
| I leave the giants stranded |
| At the riverside |
| Race back to the farm |
| To dream with my uncle |
| At the fireside… |