In the Long Run
Copyright© 2024 by The Horse With No Name
Chapter 70: Twin-Engined boost
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 70: Twin-Engined boost - Mark and Lydia hit a lot of bumps during the cold war and fate eventually brings them to the other side of the globe, but even there the challenges don't end. This is the founding story of my planned "It's always the Germans" universe, which will be created when this story reaches the year 1998.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Sports Incest Mother Son Light Bond Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Pegging Petting Nudism
The barbecue gets relatively little coverage here. You can get more details in the related story “How I Met Your Soccer Mum.”
Meri
Of course I ‘won’. It had been orchestrated to be that way. Criteriums or ‘Fairground races’ as such events were sometimes called, were essentially cycling’s version of wrestling – a show with a pre-determined result. That didn’t stop Femke from giving me a run for the money in the final sprint of our 4-woman escape group. I actually had to dig really deep to beat her. The result may have been orchestrated, but she made me work for it. I loved her for that. And the spectators had definitely loved that mad dash to the finish line.
Of course I had to spend the best part of two hours after the race giving autographs, doing interviews and posing with fans for photographs, but knowing this would be the final time, I actually enjoyed it. Knowing that I could literally walk home from there was making it even more enjoyable. I wasn’t in some non-descript Polish town somewhere in the mountains. I was in my home town.
Mark and the other girls had already left to prepare the big barbecue and by the time I arrived at home, the scene was already set. Mark had started the campfire and as far as I could see, all but our guests of honor, Mario, Ilka, Jogi and his girlfriend Doreen were already in attendance.
Except, no, there was someone missing.
“Where’s Femke?” I asked.
“On her way to Carcassonne,” Mark said as he peeled sausages out of their packaging. “I asked Ian to fly her there. The Tour de l’Aude starts tomorrow.”
“Fucking hell, she came here to ride my farewell race one day before the biggest tour on the calendar?”
“You should have noticed by now that we all love you,” Mark said and kissed me.
“And you?” I asked, turning towards Nadja. “Are they riding without you this year?”
She nodded. “Amelie has been playing second fiddle to first Lydia and then me for six years. It’s time she tries her hand at being the leader. I’ve finished my season early to concentrate on my Nürburgring races.”
“The only thing I’m going to concentrate on is being here,” I said with a grin. “By the way, where are our guests?”
“Look behind you,” Lydia said and giggled.
Lydia
Normally we would have had our first barbecue some time in the spring, but this year had been so busy, it had taken us until August to finally find the time.
The evening had been interesting to say the least. Of all people, Jogi’s girlfriend Doreen had been the one to ditch the shirt first, an invitation none of us needed to get offered a second time. It had been awfully hot sitting around the campfire.
And blimey, that girl had muscles! First of all she was taller than any of us, and she was a swimmer. Her arms were bigger than my legs! Couple that to the exquisite physique of a sixteen year old girl and you get a picture for the ages. Jogi was one lucky bastard.
Mark and I had spent most of the evening talking to Ilka and Mario. What would come of it was anyone’s guess, but we had done our best to give them our perspective on what it was like to be a couple with a significant age difference. What they would make of it was their decision. It was not our task to tell them how to live their life.
Our guests had gone, Nadja, Regina and Meri had scattered as well and Jenny had nicked Feli hours ago, so it was only me and Mark still left to deal with securing the garden after our barbecue.
“So what do you think?” I asked Mark as we shoveled sand over the remnants of the campfire. “I get the impression Ilka really knows what she’s doing, but she thinks Mario will be obstinate.”
“I thought he was going to punch me,” Mark said with a chuckle. “Cheating on Ilka is anathema to that lad, and getting involved with any of you is cheating in his book.”
“Did you tell him that Ilka actually wants him to get ‘involved’?”
“Did it make a difference that you once told me you were okay with me and Meri fooling around?” he asked back. “It’s Mario’s decision to make. If he comes around, good for you, if not, we have to respect it. The lad’s a really talented footballer who might go places one day, so there’s more aspects to consider than just will-he-won’t-he. He might be a public figure himself soon, with all the media attention that comes with it.”
“Too bad,” I admitted. “He’s really wise beyond his years. In a way he reminds me of you.”
Mark chuckled, with a good portion of sarcasm mixed in.
“Lydia, that boy had to grow up even faster than I did. Compared to my childhood, Mario has been through hell and back. Did Ilka tell you he saved her from being raped at the age of twelve?”
I gasped and tried to sit down. I missed the chair and ended up on my butt, sitting on the lawn.
“Some asshole spiked Ilka’s drink and tried to rape her. Mario was just twelve at the time and didn’t really understand what was going on, but seeing her half-naked he got her out of that situation by posing as her son. The lad has seen things that no kid should ever have seen.”
“Shit, and here we are trying to work out a way to woo him,” I spat, suddenly feeling like a piece of shit.
“Hold your horses, darling,” Mark said. “The whole point of Ilka’s idea is that she trusts all of you. I think we agree that none of us would force anything. Just let the boy do his thing. He’ll let you know in time what his decision will be.”
“How would you have let me know in his position?” I asked.
Mark chuckled. “Remember how he always rolls onto his stomach when Regina brings him a drink?”
“Well, he’s obviously trying to conceal a hard-on,” I noted.
“Bingo. If he ever decides to do something about it, he’ll not roll over.”
I chuckled. “I know how Regina will react.”
“Let me help you with that,” Mark finished my sentence in a not very convincing imitation of Regina’s slight Saxon twang, and we both had to laugh.
Meri
I had never thought retirement could be this great. The very knowledge that I wouldn’t have to pack my shit and go to a god-forsaken town in Poland, Czech Republic or Austria the next day was enough to make me feel positively giddy, but the real kicker was Mark and Regina finally reconnecting properly.
Granted, that involved a lot of very loud guitar music or walking in on the two of them fucking the raw stuffing out of each other in the kitchen, but I was by no means an innocent bystander. Ever since they had rekindled their love for each other, Regina had been an animal in bed. I could not remember her taking that good care of me. Hardly a day went by without my better half making me completely incoherent at least twice a day.
The days came and went and in mid September it was time for Nadja to try her hand at racing a car for the first time. True to Lydia’s promise this was going to be the last time that we would all be away at the same time. Regina would be looking after Feli while we all went to the Nürburgring to watch Nadja’s debut. Of course Jenny was tagging along. Going to a race without her would have been like celebrating Christmas mass in Rome without the pope.
We arrived in Breidscheidt at the head quarters of the team that Jonjo was working for, the very team that would field a car for Nadja to drive. We were all somewhat surprised when that very car turned out to be the weird Trabant contraption that Jonjo had engineered over the last two years.
“You’s seriously racing that?” Mark asked.
“Only car in SPX, man,” Jonjo told us. “We want to race that next year in the 24 hours, but we need more data.”
“You do know that Nadja is supposed to finish at least two races to get her permit?” Mark replied.
“You trying to insult me, man?” Jonjo shot back. “She’ll finish.”
“Right, so you think that thing won’t explode,” Mark said. “Who are the other drivers? You won’t let her drive four hours on her own, are you?”
“Course not, man,” his best friend replied. “Second driver will be Ronny Melkus. Know him?”
“Nope,” Mark admitted.
“The Melkus family is to East Germany what them Andrettis are to the states, man,” Jonjo explained, “They are racing royalty.”
“Right,” Mark said. “But can this thing actually win? Nadja is a professional athlete, she won’t take kindly to having no chance to win it.”
“She’ll win her class by default,” Jonjo explained. “It’s the only car in the experimental class this year. But overall? Forget it. We can’t beat a Chrysler Viper GTS-R in that, man.”
Lydia
I had to cover my ears, lest I would be running around with a permanent tinitus. The hilarious racket of Nadja’s car’s two motorbike engines was enough to pierce my eardrums, but the crowd added some serious noise whenever she crossed the finish line. Jonjo’s Frankenstein Trabant had become the fan favorite in an instant and people were cheering the car wherever it appeared on the twenty-five mile circuit.
We had all mocked Nadja for her antics on the Autobahn, but I realized quite quickly that she was seriously fast. Her lap times were more than five seconds faster than her team mate’s and that man was a professional racing car driver.
Okay, five seconds were a mere blip on a track that was twenty-five miles long, but she was still faster and qualified the car in thirtieth position, way higher up than anyone had expected a Frankenstein’ed contraption with only 210 horse powers and all the aerodynamic properties of a very large brick.
The crowd loved it. Nobody had really realized that behind the wheel was an Olympic silver medal winner. Nadja was racing under her new Icelandic name, so except for a few knowledgeable journalists nobody really realized who she was. And besides, the car was the star in any case. The crowds had taken an instant liking to it.
The Trabant had gathered a bit of a cult following since the reunification and seeing one of those passing Porsche Carreras on the Nordschleife was exactly what the crow loved the most. That you could hear the monstrous scream of those two bike engines from miles away only added to the car’s appeal.
Usually, when Jenny tried to explain racing technology to us, we would be lost halfway along her explanation, but this time I actually understood why Nadja had finished that high up the order. Jonjo’s creation was essentially me on four wheels.
Going by the raw numbers it was one of the weakest cars in the field at ‘just’ 210 horse powers, but it also weighed next to nothing, which meant it didn’t need a big engine to begin with. It was exactly the same principle that had won me many time trials over my cycling career. Compared to specialists like Femke, I looked positively anorexic, but weighing less than half of her I also needed much less energy to reach the same speed.
What also helped was the fact that Nadja’s car was one of the few that were all-wheel-drive. Jonjo had installed two engines for a reason. One drove the rear wheels, one drove the front wheels and some clever electronic malarkey made sure they did so in a synchronized fashion. That was more than I needed to know, frankly, but seeing Jenny so happy while explaining it all to us, we gave her our full attention.
Jenny had suggested that we watch the race at a section called “Flugplatz”, apparently named that way because there had been or still was an airfield somewhere nearby. Nadja and I mainly remembered it as a rather hefty climb when we had cycled around the track earlier this year.
Why Jenny had wanted to watch the race from there became obvious when the cars whizzed by for the first time. “Flugplatz” translates to “airfield”, but the name got a whole new meaning because some of the cars actually jumped at the crest of the incline, and the furthest jumps where made by Nadja’s very light car. The crowd roared their appreciation when the little Trabant jumped the crest and landed heavily some five to six meters later.
Due to the length of the track we only got to see Nadja about every nine to ten minutes, but it definitely was a sight to behold and the crowd whooped and cheered every time she came by to demonstrate her car’s ambitions at being an airplane.
About an hour into the race Nadja was long overdue though and we couldn’t even hear the loud engine noise coming up.
“Pit stop,” Jenny said when she noticed that Meri and I were getting restless. “They have to pit for fuel and tires every eight laps.”
“Does that take so long?” I asked. “In Formula 1 they pit like ten seconds or so.”
“They have a minimum time,” Jenny explained. “The longer you go without a pitstop, the longer you have to be stationary in the pits. That’s why it doesn’t make much sense to install a larger tank and go ten laps. You would just be required to wait longer in the pits.”
“I think she’s back on track,” Meri said and giggled when a familiar engine scream could be heard in the distance.
It wasn’t Nadja though who jumped the little Trabant to the crowd’s delight. She had handed the car over to her team mate.
Unlike Nadja though, I wasn’t quite traveling as incognito as she did. A group of campers had recognized me and we soon found ourselves with a bottle of beer and a grilled sausage in hand – well, a bottle of Fanta in Jenny’s case.
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