Formula Ben-Hur

The deafening roar of the crowd dissipated finally as the Announcer made his way to the centre of the Hippodrome, the sand whipping about his feet with an impatient ferocity. A microphone descended from the heavens and laid itself directly into the Announcer’s open palm, and without hesitation he boomed forth the tale of Formula Ben-Hur.

“Tis in this very ‘drome of dust and dirt that you shall bare witness to the greatest spectacle of the 21st century! A race so fantastic as to shame those that bore the name Ferrari, McLaren and Williams upon their breast. A race so feverishly exciting you’ll be telling tales of it upon your deathbeds! And now, my beloved spectators… the Riders!”

The roar of the crowd exploded over the audience like a spark at a gas main as the Riders entered the Hippodrome. Already mounted upon their powerful steeds they waved at the crowds and paraded around the course in a lap of pre-emptive glory. They stood upon their Ben-Hur converted Ford Escorts, Vauxhall Cavaliers and their Saab 900s and rode them by the reins with an air of authority. Stood upon the chariot platform attached to the roof of the car just behind the sunroof, the riders pulled taught their seat-belt reins against the steering wheels below. The Riders revved their engines with the extended pedals by their feet and looked magnificent in their full body leathers, helmet, and bright flowing capes. The bonnets of the cars had been beautifully ordained with crafted mechanical metal horses’ torsos that moved with an elegance and prestige that could only pertain to axle rotation.

When the Riders steered their beastly apparatus in line with the starting point the suspense was unbearable. The crowd, softened only by their anticipation for the starting pistol, had been reduced to a dull thunder. The Riders strapped themselves in and tested the instant release mechanisms, should they need them upon a roll of their carriage. They assured the instant roll-cage extender bars of the chariot base were working properly, whilst the pit crews sharpened the protruding spokes of the wheels.

Some Riders waved to loved ones in the crowd, others prayed to God to keep them safe from trampling wheels, and another held a steely gaze fuelled with rage at a single opponent - the ruler and presiding Champion of the Hippodrome - with 20 years of slavery pounding vengeance through his veins. This will be the day. This will be the day. This will be the day.

The moment was imminent… the race poised and ready like an arrow quivering in a tightly strung bow. Revved engines, smoke, dust, cheers, grease, metal, and but one thing remaining… Victory.