I am not much to look at.  In most circumstances, even the people who need me the most, who really, really need me, pass me by without a moment’s hesitation.  No one ever thanks me.  And no one ever apologizes for running me down.  Even when I was brand new, I was plain.  Sure, I was an un-naturally bright orange, made from a kind of rubberized plastic that will last for millennia before bio-degrading into its constituent parts, but I looked just like the millions of other road cones that rolled off my same assembly line, ready for the abuse that only automobiles can provide.

            I did not stay clean and pure for long.  I’d been on the track for maybe an hour before the back end of a black Porsche Boxster stepped out in a hard turn, the rear wheels grinding and sliding over me, tearing me up against the rough surface of the parking lot track.  In the first of the many hit and runs that make up my life, he didn’t stop.  He didn’t go four wheels off the track, so all he needed to do was straighten the front wheels, punch the accelerator to settle the back wheels—and grind me harder into the asphalt—and take off, back on the line.  A helpful corner worker retrieved me from where I’d been spit by the back tires, and set me back in my chalk outline without a single word.

            The days and races since that first scarring have all blurred together.  The smell of smoking tires and automotive exhaust is ever-present now, forced into my fading orange rubberized skin along with the gravel and the odd metal shaving scraped off the skid pan of a car set too low.  As much as anyone ever could, I’ve gotten used to the sight of a car bumper bearing down on me at sixty miles an hour; I no longer try, uselessly, to jump out of the way.  As often as not the bumper and the rest of the car jog to one side or the other at the last possible second; when they don’t, and I find myself crushed again, well, it’s part of the job now.  I expect it.  Which isn’t the same as enjoying it, of course.

            I suppose there’s a certain excitement to being a road cone.  After all, I’m allowed to be so much closer to the race than any other spectator.  All the drivers and their friends and families are held more than a hundred yards off the track, pinned back by rope and flags.  Even the corner workers are required to be twenty yards off the track and out of the lines of possible spins and tank-slappers.  I’ve been set right at the re-entrance of the track, just after the slalom course, inches from the bumpers and tires and wheels and skid pans and door panels that flash past me in a never-ending, high-speed parade.  You fragile humans may dream of being so dangerously close, to feel the wind tug at you as another car flashes past, but you’d never do it.  You leave that honor to me.

            Being left with no other choice, I’ve decided to enjoy the life I have.  I revel in it, in fact.  Instead of complaining of the headaches caused by the roar of the exhaust echoing inside my hollow core, I’ve learned to distinguish the whine of different engines and different muffler set-ups.  Rather than lamenting another crushing session on the outside of a hard turn, I’ve learned that tires taste different: Goodyear tires have a meaty quality, like steak; Pirellis are sweeter, like roasted garlic.

            And I’ve learned my true value, too.  During the practice laps, I am close to worthless.  Knocking me down, blowing me out of the chalk box I’ve been assigned, catching me up and crushing me completely in your undercarriage or suspension has no penalty at all, except, perhaps, a little embarrassment, and the knowledge that you can’t push so hard on that turn.  But in timed laps, in timed laps I become a sacred object, a relic to be worshipped.  Not worshipped from a far, of course; I will still feel the wind as you rush past me, but in timed laps I am not to be touched.  Should you hit me, crush me, knock me down, or grind me up in your timed laps, I am worth two seconds.  And two seconds, I have learned, can be the difference between first and last place in your class.

            It is too much to ask that you ever respect me, I’m sure.  But to have you notice me, maybe even appreciate me, as I throw myself into your competitor’s bumper, send myself spinning off the track, and hand you the win, well, that would be a welcome change indeed.