Soap-Box Derby
The day had finally come, and I was ready. The media would be there, with their cameras flashing and pencils jerking. And I was the feature attraction. Yes, that's right. My soap-box derby car was the best one in the race by a long shot. It had taken many hours of my freetime, but those hours were about to pay off. I strode with large strides over to the car and got in. As I maneuvered it slowly toward the starting gate, I checked all of the features for one last time. All systems go. My crash helmet firmly in place, I switched the radio to a little faster paced music and adjusted the volume. It was because of this that I didn't hear the starter's gun. I saw the other cars streak out of the gate, so I quickly shifted into gear. I had time to make up if I was to win the race. As I entered the pack, the slower cars began to hinder my advancement. I flashed my lights and blared my horn, and my opponents got the hint. They veered to the outer track and allowed me to pass. As I passed the final car, I could see the finish line quickly approaching. I pressed the release button for the liquid nitrogen tanks for added effect as I burst through the finish. I was hero for a day, but never again, for my car was taken away from me and now rests in a seldom-visited corner of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C.
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