This all could be gone

Ever get the sense that the looming failure will fall upon you at the eleventh hour, at the very moment your long-awaited escape from it felt all but certain? You can spend your whole life driving lap after lap around that track, knuckles white and powering through the fatigue and fried nerves. You can clench your teeth as you jerk the wheel and pull over to take those unavoidable pit stops, cursing at the sputtering of an empty tank, kicking at blown tires, and despairing at repairs that come at too high a price. You can go through it all, every disaster and letdown, even after the thread of hope at hoisting a trophy has slipped your grasp, because at least the feat of seeing it through to the end is an honor worth the undertaking. And then, black and white checkered flag in sight, finish-line in pissing distance, the engine that has roared for so many miles that you have become half-deaf from it, finally falls out... and you are unsure which hits the ground first: the broken motor, or your broken heart.