[b][center][h2]Joel Nicolosi[/h2][/center][/b]

Social convention was never his forte. Something about it, maybe just his natural sense of spite turned him off it completely. If it was tacitly expected, he usually rejected it. [i]Sol Mates Thursday[/i] was no exception. The lights of downtown were the same as always in the fresh darkness of night from his [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4526244]regular spot[/url] at the Lighthouse. The glowing ambiance of downtown and the lights of the Matthews Bridge in the distance folded over the sharp lines of his [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4689246] GTR[/url] like a stealth fighter. The same barge pulled steel coils up the river, just as it did every weeknight and he watched the water ripple off the bow before glancing back over to the traffic flowing unhindered across the bridge and the steady rhythm of tires over the concrete joints. It was dark, though still early in the evening. He preferred the night, but the days were beginning to get longer. The cool of the night bit against his long sleeve t-shirt and he took a sip from his coffee cup.

In some ways he missed it and in other ways he was ready to do something else, maybe even [i]go somewhere else[/i]. A few years ago it was enough to prowl the 923 Loop from night to night looking for sport. A flash of lights and a few minutes over 200mph made him feel as alive as he could humanly comprehend. Riding the GTR, he easily owned the expressways and it reminded him of those times in some ways, but now he was [i]paid[/i] to drive fast and it wasn’t the same. In a few days they would be off to the Vineyard Rally and he would again be behind the wheel. The more he thought about it, the more nebulous it became. His thoughts shifted to Sio and he wondered how long she would put up with it and how none before her had managed to last. He knew if he were any kind of “good man” he would be taking her out for the night, but inside he knew that she couldn’t compete and that he wasn’t “good”. 

The heat of the coffee in his hand had numbed his grip somewhat and he took another long sip seeing the steam rise in front of his vision. He glanced at his watch. A few more minutes and he’d be off to the airport. Another car and another challenge a few months down the road. He knew the Germans wouldn’t be crazy about his racing for another British sponsor, but the Isle of Man was still obscure enough that taking a crack at the production car record on his own time didn’t violate his contract laws with Rebellion or Porsche. If they had wanted to put up a car, he would have drove for them just the same, but Maxamillion Olympus wanted the record for a British car and Joel wanted the record for himself. The course was stringent enough on a motorcycle and only a few successful runs had been completed in cars. He’d have to get it right after only a short amount of practice on the actual stage and therein was the excitement: He would only have a precious, short opportunity to put it on the edge, the only place where he really felt like he was [i]living[/i], where decisions made in fractions of time or the unthought flex of instinct would carry him through or potentially kill him. It was his true self.

The thought of it was exhilarating though the blazing line of a narrow, winding, English island road played behind his eyes, his outside demeanor remained stoic as usual. He glanced back towards the Lighthouse to see a few couples enjoying the evening and just couldn't understand how people were satisfied with such dull lives. Tossing his empty cup into a waste bin he checked the traffic on his phone before heading out to Old Sol International.