A Tug on Superman’s Cape

“You’re blind, Bob, a mindless hero worshiper.”

“Am not.”

“Why this Formula One Champion? Niki–”

“Lauda. Absolutely. I had a celebrity encounter.”

“At a race?”

“No, years later. A Wiener Rathauskeller.”

Retired from his three World Championships and fiery, disfiguring crash, Niki waltzed in wearing his trademark ballcap, squiring a stunning Valkyrie, statuesque, flowing black curls. They downed five shots each, left before Bob ordered dessert.

“Get his autograph?”

“Nope. Didn’t speak.”

“Where’s the illuminating ‘encounter’?”

“I glimpsed his essence. The trophy babe, his heightened capacity, even for shots. Lithe, alert, he exuded self-confidence, comfort with speed, assurance in pursuit.”