Pete's Expert Summary
My human has apparently decided that our living room floor, a pristine canvas for my naps, required a sprawling network of black plastic ribbon. Upon this track, he has placed two tiny, noisy vehicles—a "Mustang" and a "Camaro"—which he makes zip around with a tethered clicking device. I see it comes with an array of useless human paraphernalia like a "grandstand" and a "spectator bridge," as if I would ever deign to sit in a designated area. The zipping motion of these contraptions might momentarily pique my predatory interest, but their predictable, confined path and the sheer electric whine suggest this is ultimately a loud, floor-cluttering distraction from more important matters, like strategic sunbeam acquisition. A novelty at best, a nap-disruptor at worst.
Key Features
- INCLUDES: 1 Complete HO Scale Race Set With 2 Cars, Track, Controllers, & Power Supply
- CARS: Thunderjet Ultra G 1968 Camaro & 1970 Mustang
- TRACK: 14' Of Running Track
- ACCESSORIES: Guard Rails, Spectator Bridge, Grandstand, Start / Finish Gate, Track Cleaning Pad & Stickers
- FULLY COMPATIBLE TRACK: Works With All Auto World & AFX Track
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The affair began with what I call the Great Upheaval. My human, usually a predictable source of food and chin scratches, was on his hands and knees, clicking together lengths of black plastic into a grotesque, sprawling loop. The scent of new plastic and cheap stickers filled the air, an offensive perfume. From my observation post atop the sofa's armrest, I watched him meticulously erect a tiny bridge and a gallery for non-existent spectators. The sheer absurdity of it all. I issued a low, guttural sigh of disapproval, but he was too engrossed in his miniature world-building to notice my judgment. Then came the sound. It wasn't the clumsy rattle of a wind-up mouse or the dull thud of a felt ball. It was a sharp, ozone-tinged hum, a high-pitched whine that vibrated through the floorboards and directly into my whiskers. He placed the blue machine, the "Camaro," onto the track. With a click from his hand-held device, it shot forward, not with the erratic wobble of a lesser toy, but with a kind of determined, electric grace. It was bound to its path, a prisoner of the plastic rails, yet it moved with a ferocity that spoke of a trapped soul. It navigated the curves with a slight, thrilling drift, its tiny engine screaming defiance. My skepticism began to melt. He then introduced the second car, the red "Mustang." This was no longer a simple object in motion; it was a duel. The two tiny beasts chased each other, their whines harmonizing into a frantic symphony. They were two territorial rivals, locked in a perpetual, high-speed chase for dominance of this plastic kingdom. I found myself leaning forward, my tail giving a slow, involuntary twitch with each near-miss on the crossover track. Once, the Camaro took a turn too fast, its rear tires losing their grip and sending it skidding into a guardrail with a sharp *clack*. The drama was palpable. This wasn't a toy; it was a tiny, visceral opera. When the human finally cut the power, the sudden silence was deafening. The two racers sat motionless on the track, their contest suspended. I glided down from my perch, my paws silent on the rug. I approached not the track, but the blue Camaro, which lay dormant by the rail it had struck. I lowered my head, sniffing its chassis. I could still feel a faint warmth from its tiny, overworked motor. It was not a thing to be batted or chewed. It was a defeated warrior. I looked at the human, who was smiling at his creation, and gave him a slow, deliberate blink. The spectacle was loud, intrusive, and utterly pointless. And yet, it was worthy. It had earned my attention.