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The third chapter of a five-part series.

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They said the Lincoln Capri looked like it had already seen the future, then driven back through a dust storm to tell about it. The two-tone coupe squatted on the plaza outside the Puebla hotel, wide-shouldered and slightly worn, but still proud in its curves. Its yellow tailfins flashed like gold teeth under the morning sun, the patina on its hood a storybook of scratches and small victories. Where Delgado’s Lincoln carried gravitas and Lucinda’s laughter, this Capri carried something else entirely—saucy nerve with a rosary on the dash.

The driver’s door opened with a creak that announced trouble, and trouble obliged in the form of Trixie: a half-squint against the light, lipstick already in place, hair teased to architectural defiance. She leaned against the roof and lit a cigarette as if it were a starter’s pistol. Her heels clicked on the pavement, a sound as certain as applause.

Behind her, Sister Thelma emerged, smoothing her habit with the patience of a woman who had never once in her life gone looking for applause but often found herself in the center of it. She carried a thermos of coffee in one hand and a rosary in the other, eyes lifting skyward as though she expected an editorial from above.

“This thing has a smell,” she said, eyeing the Capri as if it were a reluctant penitent.

“That’s power, honey.” Trixie flicked ash near the bumper. “And a little leftover goat from Rusty’s fiasco. Adds character.”

Thelma crossed herself, then tapped the rosary against the fender. “Character I can live without.”

The crowd loved them from the moment the starter dropped the flag. Maybe it was the way the Lincoln roared with a throaty confidence. Maybe it was the sight of a flirty hairdresser and a nun barreling together through Mexico. Maybe it was the contrast: Trixie’s lipstick grin beside Thelma’s prayerful calm. Whatever the reason, children lined the roadside waving scraps of cloth as flags, men hollered encouragement, women pointed and laughed like the whole world had been turned inside out and made better for it.

Highway Games

The first checkpoint came outside Atlixco, manned by uniformed officials with clipboards and faces too serious for their own good. Rusty had warned everyone that paperwork mattered here, but paperwork had never won Trixie’s attention the way eyelashes did.

“Let me handle this, Sister,” she said, slipping the transmission into neutral with a wiggle of her hips that could have gotten applause in a dance hall.

The officer leaned in. Trixie’s voice dropped to a honeyed drawl, sweet enough to make the desert jealous. She fussed with her hair, asked if the nice man liked cars, told him the Lincoln reminded her of his smile. Thelma gasped audibly but held her tongue as the man stamped their papers without even looking at them.

When they pulled away, Trixie cackled. “See? Charm beats ink every time.”

Thelma tightened her rosary until the beads clicked. “Charm is cheap. Grace is eternal.”

“Grace don’t get you waved past a federale with a gun,” Trixie shot back.

“Maybe not. But grace will keep you from hellfire when that gun jams and he remembers your wink.”

They both laughed, though for different reasons, and the Lincoln rumbled onward like a referee who didn’t care who won as long as the game stayed loud.

Descent into Madness

The road from Cholula to the pass above Mexico City was the kind of highway engineers built only after tequila and bravado. Hairpin turns clung to mountainsides, cliffs dropped away like invitations to eternity, and guardrails were either absent or ornamental.

Trixie attacked it with the enthusiasm of a woman late for a date she had no intention of keeping. The Lincoln leaned, squealed, and thundered through the curves, wide body shaking but never surrendering.

Thelma began to pray at the second turn and didn’t stop. She recited psalms, improvised novenas, even sang hymns under her breath while clutching the dash as if she could hold it still by faith alone.

“Lord preserve us from temptation, and from women who take curves like—” she broke off, teeth rattling against the rosary as Trixie swung wide.

Trixie snorted. “Say it plain, Sister. Like a bat out of hell.”

“This is no bat,” Thelma muttered. “This is the devil’s chariot.”

“And who’s ridin’ shotgun?”

Thelma shut her eyes and answered with another prayer, louder this time. Her voice rose above the engine, half desperate, half defiant.

Trixie rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. The sound of Thelma’s voice steadying itself against gravity was better than any co-driver’s instructions. Between the lipstick and the litany, they stayed on the road.

Encounters Along the Way

They passed Rusty and Hairless first, the Ford Customline coughing smoke and trailing goat hair like party streamers. Rusty leaned out the window, hat off, waving an indignant fist. A goat stood on his roof like a hood ornament.

“Penalty my ass!” he shouted.

Trixie blew him a kiss as she slid by. Hairless raised a hand in mock blessing, notebook open on his knees.

Thelma made the sign of the cross at the goat.

Next came Lucinda and Delgado in the two-toned Lincoln, regal even under dust. Delgado gave a curt nod, Lucinda winked with the grace of a queen recognizing another. Trixie winked back, then muttered, “That woman’s got enough poise to sink a battleship.”

“Envy is a sin,” Thelma reminded her.

“So is being boring,” Trixie shot back.

By the time they caught sight of Cutter and Rex in their battered Studebaker, the road had narrowed to a series of switchbacks. Cutter leaned out the window hollering encouragement; Rex hung onto his hat with both hands.

“You two are makin’ a name for yourselves!” Cutter shouted.

Thelma blushed. Trixie beamed. “Honey, we been makin’ names since the day we were born.”

Fan Favorites

By the time they reached villages along the descent, the crowds had already chosen their champions. Children waved signs painted with crude pictures of the Lincoln. Women called out blessings to Sister Thelma, crossing themselves as she passed. Men hollered admiration at Trixie, who answered with a honk of the horn and a wave sharp enough to break glass.

Vendors even began selling little paper models of the Capri, painted in yellow and rust with “Las Damas del Lincoln” scrawled across the roof.

At one stop, a boy pressed a flower into Thelma’s hand. She tucked it into her rosary, eyes misting. At the same moment, a man slipped a flask into Trixie’s. She took a swig and winked, proving saints and sinners had equal footing on Mexican soil.

“They love us,” Trixie said, voice half smug, half amazed.

“They love the idea of us,” Thelma corrected. “God help them when they see what we’re really like.”

“God help them? Honey, God better help us.”

Near Disaster

The day’s climax came on a rough stretch just before the descent into the Valley of Mexico. Rain had turned the dirt to slick clay. Delgado’s Lincoln had already cut ruts into it, and Rusty’s Ford left chaos behind.

Trixie muscled the wheel, cigarette clenched between her teeth. The Lincoln fishtailed, caught, and fishtailed again. She swore loud enough to echo.

Thelma launched into a prayer so urgent it sounded like she was bargaining with the Almighty Himself. “Deliver us from evil, from goats, from hairpins, from foolish women who do not slow down—”

The rear tires lost traction. The Lincoln slid sideways toward the cliff’s edge.

For a moment, the whole world tilted: sky, earth, road, eternity.

Trixie yanked the wheel and stomped the throttle, instinct over reason. Thelma screamed, but her prayer turned into a hymn: “Holy, holy, holy—”

The Lincoln caught grip at the last second, flinging a spray of mud into the canyon but hauling itself back to center. They both screamed, then laughed, then screamed again.

When the road straightened, they sat in silence. Smoke curled from Trixie’s cigarette. Thelma’s knuckles stayed white on the rosary.

Finally, Trixie whispered, “You keep prayin’, Sister. I’ll keep drivin’. Between the two of us, maybe we’ll fool God and gravity both.”

Finish Line

They rolled into Mexico City battered but intact, the Lincoln Capri wearing mud like medals and hoofprints like signatures. The plaza roared. Children climbed shoulders to see. Vendors sold churros and tiny flags. Someone held up a banner that read: Viva Las Damas del Lincoln!

Trixie revved the engine like a champion. Thelma bowed her head, cheeks burning red. The crowd adored them both, for entirely different reasons.

Cutter brought out the chalkboard once again.

Standings after Puebla–Mexico City:

• Lucinda & Delgado — 1956 Lincoln Premiere
• Rex Hall & Cutter Bridges — 1953 Studebaker Commander
• Trixie & Sister Thelma — 1954 Lincoln Capri (fan favorite bonus)
• Angus & Chad — 1965 Ford Falcon
• Rusty & Hairless — 1954 Ford Customline Tudor (goat penalty)

Rusty groaned, Hat down over his face. Hairless muttered something about destiny being cruel. Lucinda gave a soft smile of approval. Delgado simply nodded.

Trixie put her hands on her hips and shouted, “Third place, boys! Looks like lipstick and prayer outrun tools and goats!”

Thelma covered her face but couldn’t hide her grin. “Lord forgive her,” she murmured. “And forgive me for enjoying this.”

Closing Beat

That night in their Mexico City hotel room, the Lincoln resting below like a loyal dog, the two women sat in silence for a long while.

Trixie smoked by the window, neon lights painting her hair in wild colors. Thelma sat on the bed, rosary in hand, lips moving silently.

Finally, Trixie said, “You know, Sister, we make a hell of a team.”

Thelma sighed. “That’s what worries me.”

Trixie laughed, long and hard, then offered her cigarette. Thelma shook her head.

“Suit yourself,” Trixie said, exhaling a ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling. “Tomorrow’s another day. Another road. Another prayer.”

“And another temptation,” Thelma added.

Together they smiled—one with mischief, the other with faith—and the race rolled on.

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