Race to Damascus

Chapter One

 Brandon Parkes had never been to Monte Carlo. Though he had traveled to Europe on half a dozen occasions he had never been to the one place he desired to visit most. As he boarded the flight to Paris, he wondered if the trip he was making to the tiny principality would be like the one he had always fantasized about, or just a disappointing waste of both time and money that he could ill afford right now.

As he settled in to First Class he looked no different than the other passengers who shared the cabin with him. Dressed in a dark gray Boss suit and wearing a silver Rolex Daytona watch, he seemed to fit right in. However, he could not have felt more out of place; in fact, desperate might have been a more accurate description of his feelings.

“May I take your suit coat, sir?” the female flight attendant asked him politely. “Sure”, said Parkes as he removed his jacket and handed it to the attractive young woman.

“Can I bring you something to drink?” she then asked.  

“I’ll have a scotch and soda.” he replied with a forced smile.

 As he sat in down in his seat and fastened the belts he thought of the first time he ever had tasted scotch. It had been almost thirteen years ago in Carmel, California. That had been a pretty happy time in his life, if not the best time he had ever known.

 Maybe going to visit the old friend who had introduced him to scotch and soda was exactly what he needed right now, he thought. He hoped that his buddy would be willing to help him out with a professional matter as well.

 Finishing his drink, he reclined back for a quick nap before dinner. “Damn it!” he said under his breath. “Relax and enjoy yourself.” He reminded himself that he was on his way to see his first Grand Prix of Monaco. A smile came to his face at that thought, and as soon as the plane was airborne he was fast asleep.

 Not long after drifting off he began to lose the pleasant feelings and start having the same bad dream that had been haunting him for months. Like always, the dream started with him driving a rental car through the familiar gates of the Daytona International Speedway.

 He had been to the famed track several times in his life. The first time as a fan in his late teens, and then as a professional road racer driving in the 24 hour sportscar race. However, this trip was different from his earlier visits. This time he would be testing a stock car on the oval track and the Daytona Speedway, at least in the fog of sleep, has a completely different feel to him.

 The Impala SS race car that he is driving, on the two and one half mile oval, seems to be traveling at near supersonic speed. It soon becomes uncontrollable and slams hard into the turn three wall. The contrast between hurtling down the track and suddenly coming to a dead stop is both traumatic and terrifying to him.

 It takes the rescue crew, what feels like an hour to reach him. The dream slows down even more as a rescuer attempts to cut him out of the car with the Jaws of Life. Trying to help them extract him, he attempts to get out of the driver’s seat but finds that if he tries to move his reward is intense pain.

 After finally being freed from the wreckage of his once pristine race car, he is transported to the Daytona infield hospital and told by a physician that his leg is badly broken and that the pain he feels in his chest is from a bruised sternum. The doctor’s face is soon replaced by that of a pastor from Motorsport Ministries. The man keeps asking him if he wants to pray with him. His tone is serious and seems that his life might depend on it. Standing with the pastor is the team owner who says to him repeatedly, in a strong southern accent, “maybe these big super speedways just aren’t your cup of tea, son.”