My exposure to the sport of auto racing is through my early days as a (foolish, dumb-ass) 17-year old at the dirt track in Salisbury, NC. I was part of Jerry Scalf's "pit crew" of four car-crazy teenagers. Jerry drove a stripped down red, white & blue '62 Chevy Impala, appropriately nicknamed "Captain America" around that half mile of dirt. On occasion, Jerry finished near the front, and once even took the checkered flag, but that was the exception, rather than the rule.
      Jerry's usual lot was to nurse the ol' "Cap'n." back to the garage after getting too enthusiastic with his "rubbing" (i.e. sideswiping) of one or more of his fellow competitors. Several times, we had to go get Jerry after he lost an argument with one of them, or with the wall. "Going to get Jerry" was always a treat, because we got to work with April, the track's tow truck driver.
       She was in her early-20's, five four, or thereabouts, one forty, give or take a pound, with chestnut brown hair, and deep brown eyes in a strong, yet feminine face. What was remarkable about April was covered by a greasy set of coveralls with a "Flying-A" patch on the back. April sported a pair of beautifully proportioned breasts that were of such a size that she could not close the coveralls' zipper past her breastbone.
       Not surprisingly, April attracted a lot of stares and double-takes, (not to mention hoots and whistles) whenever she showed up with the tow truck. There was some sniggering comments that the drivers made about how April gave new meaning to the phrase, "getting a lift", but if she heard them, it never seemed to bother her. Still, the sight of a tire iron in her grime-covered fist tended to keep the nastiest comments to a minimum.
       Well, one Saturday night in mid-August, Jerry's luck ran out. "Captain America" got into a bad scrape with two other cars, and ended up going "over the high side" in turn one, rolling several times in the process.
       The medics who took Jerry to the hospital were remarking how such a horrendous accident had only left him with two broken legs, and a smashed shoulder. They seemed to think that Jerry had gotten off easy.
       From where I stood, there wasn't much left of the "Cap'n." What wasn't smashed or twisted was strewn over several acres of North Carolina. Nope, "Captain America's" racing days were definitely over.
       I heard a little gasp, and an "O my god!" from behind me. April was standing there, big brown eyes staring, one grimy fist in her mouth.
       "Jerry's just banged up, April", I said. "He'll be okay in about a month or so."
       "I think y'all are gonna be usin' the Cap'n here for a fish reef," said April. "Here, help me set the tow hook, will ya?"
       After twenty minutes of sweaty, curse-filled work on a sultry August night, off we went to April's garage. "Captain America" found his final rest in a quiet corner of her auto graveyard, next to a venerable old Buick with no windshield. After a brief moment of silence, April and I drove back to the garage to get cleaned up. April's garage was built in the 1940's as a sort of streamlined temple to the automotive revolution. Six gas pumps, three repair bays, and April kept all of it gleaming and spotless. (A spotlessly clean gas station. Think of it.) Anxious to get the filth and grease of the track off me, I headed off to the showers in back. Two minutes later I was letting a Niagara Falls of hot water wash the tiredness out of my bones. I was just wondering where the soap was when I felt a caress down my back, and heard a contralto voice say, "I'm feelin' kinda filthy myself."

       I turned, and there in the shower beside me stood April, still wearing her coveralls, wreathed in clouds of steam. "Help me outta these things, would you", April said, as she slowly unzipped her by-now soaked and grimy coveralls.
       Eagerly, I complied, eyes a-goggle at the slowly revealed nakedness beneath.
       April's form was stocky, with the strap-like muscle development that a woman gets from doing hard work every day, and not the over-developed, muscle-bound look of the female bodybuilder. This gave her an air of quiet strength and undeniably erotic femininity. April's big breasts stood unaided about three or four inches away from her chest, each topped with a surprisingly small, berry-like nipple, that made them seem even bigger than they actually were. The whole effect was marred slightly by a "necktie" of grease and grime descending from her neck to deep within her cleavage. "Here", she said huskily, "use this." She pressed what felt like a rock coated with sandpaper into my hand, which upon examination turned out to be a bar of "Lava" soap.
       Seeing my disbelief, April grinned sheepishly. "It's the only thing that gets the dirt out." She threw her arms around my neck, and pressed her twin beauties into my chest.
       "Would you do my back first, please?" April murmured in my ear, the touch of her body sent thrills of electricity through me.
       Dutifully, through a haze of teenage lust, I clumsily began the task of soaping April's shoulders and back. I was wincing in sympathy every time the bar scraped roughly against her skin. April didn't seem to mind, though; in fact she snuggled in closer and began a low musical humming.
       The humming became more intense as I moved lower, scrubbing the rounded globes of her buttocks. Then, kneeling, I began a slow deliberate soaping in and around her thighs. April's humming began to be punctuated by gasps as my ministrations began to have their desired effect. (You know, Lava soap laced with aroused woman has a taste all its own!)
       I never got to her calves and feet, because April pushed me on my back at this point, straddled me, and, with deliberate slowness, lowered herself over and on and around me, while giving a long, trailing moan of pleasure. We were soon thrashing about in fine style, the hot water cascading over us, and the steam billowing all over the place. In my position as April's "mount", I had time to enjoy her bouncing beauties to the fullest. As with all large-breasted women, April's breasts were a focus of her sexual passion. "Use the soap, rub 'em all over!" came April's throaty gasp in my ear. "Oh yes ma'am!" I murmured, and turned to with a will.
       By using the soap's rough texture, I was able to bring first one breast, and then the other to a state of hypersensitivity, being careful to only lightly buff April's tender aureolae. This increased April's canter to a gallop in short order. With April's frenzied thrashing atop me, and my equally frenzied fondling, licking, and sucking, we soon crescendo-ed to a shattering climax.
       It was almost three in the morning when we finally parted, both of us pink, "prune-y" and blissfully exhausted from our exertions.

      Needless to say, I was infatuated with her, and tried on several foolish occasions to make her "my girl". Each attempt was politely but firmly rebuffed. April wasn't looking for love "just yet". Over the next four months, April and I had several more "scrub-ups", a few catch-as-can sessions in the back of my big ol' Electra 225, and even a couple of honest-to-gosh dates. Gradually, though, we began to drift apart as each of us found other interests. I had my studies, varsity track and football, and then college at NC State.
       April began seeing the track announcer on a regular basis, which made me jealous as all get out. One night, we had a fight. April got the last word when she clouted me one hard in the nuts, and that was the end of that!

       About four years later, I was back in Salisbury, resting up after my college graduation. One fine July night, I decided to head out to the track for some fun and relaxation.
       After the race, I walked through the pits, absorbing the smells of hot oil, burning rubber, and automobile exhaust, remembering days and nights gone by. "Looking for a job, kid?" said a familiar, husky voice behind me.
       I turned, and there was April, big brown eyes, hair tucked under her cap, breasts still straining the zipper of those grimy coveralls.
       "Hey, April, and yeah, I'm looking for a job, all right. How things going?"
       "Going just fine. I could use a good mechanic, though. How's about stopping by the garage later on?" (Was that a wink?)