When I was in an amateur street racing team, I went by the alias of RSX. It just simplified things, referring to each other by our most expensive piece of machinery. There was Civic, Lancer, and my best friend, Integra. His little brother, whom we let on the team because his mom made us, was named iPod.

The team didn’t last long, perhaps all of two months. I wish I could tell you that it was the result of conflict within the group, differing visions, or clashing personalities, but it was mainly that we valued our ability to live.

It began when we ran into Murciélago, a rival gang member whose main characteristic was having a name none of us could spell. He challenged us to a duel down the I-10, going backwards. We all froze, terrified, knowing that if we refused any challenges, the respect we’d garnered would disappear. iPod started crying.

“Maybe we can convince him to let us go,” Lancer suggested. “After all, you can’t spell Murciélago without mercy.”

It turned out you could. Stupid foreign names.

Over the next week, our team officially disbanded, but looking back, it was all right. I had already discovered World of Warcraft anyway, and there I can duel while keeping my internal organs internal.