The car flipped on its side.
James held on the steering wheel with his gloved hands.
Even with his helmet elimination most of his peripheral vision, he saw the sparks coming from the metal of his car scraping on the concrete ground.
The car shredded over the finish line and came to a halt several yards behind it.
James climbed out of the driver's door completely unharmed.
Yes, he was last. He'd been driving a terribly uninspired race. Each of the fifteen laps wore him out more and more.
By the thirteenth lap, James was just about ready to pull over and stop caring. But he kept depressing the pedal and holding on to the steering wheel.
Walking up to his team, he raised his hands in winner pose.
No, he didn't win anything. Yes, his car was ripe for the junk yard. But he was alive, in full health, and he had held out for fifteen rounds.