Every day he watches the others race by at blinding speeds. Some ending in disastrous crashes and ruin, but others in glory and satisfaction of the most fulfilling kind. They gun their engines to the limit of their revolutions. They burn fuel in baffling quantities. Their lover is speed, and risks their many concubines.
He is summoned only when the voice of reason need be heard. He subdues the burning spirits, and holds at bay the wave of sweltering metal, pounding pistons, and burning rubber that is the race cars.
He is the pace car.
Never has he tasted the sweet and intoxicating nectar of sheer unrestrained speed. Oh to leave behind the role of regulator and join the rebellious onslaught of the accelerated!
But alas, his is a role, not of choice, but of obligation for in releasing the thunderous cries of his own bolstered engine, he forfeits the one thing for which he desires to race. It is through this lethargic progression that he draws closer to the finish line which he seeks.
There is no other speed at which he can approach the checkered flag, so he goes on as he knows best; at the speed of a pace car, with the heart of a race car.
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