Tim Daland: I had sponsors in from all over the coast and I'm hugging, and holding hands, and praying for a good showin'. And what do we do? We end up looking like a monkey fucking a football out there. Everybody out, please.
Harry Hogge: Cole, you're wandering all over the track.
Cole Trickle: Yeah, well this son of a bitch just slammed into me.
Harry Hogge: No, no, he didn't slam you, he didn't bump you, he didn't nudge you... he rubbed you. And rubbin, son, is racin'.
Dr. Claire Lewicki: Boy, you're very quick.
Cole Trickle: You oughta see me drive.
Cole Trickle: Now can you walk, or am I gonna have to carry you?
Harry Hogge: Where to?
Cole Trickle: Victory Lane.
Harry Hogge: Walk? Hell... I'll race your ass.
Harry Hogge: Drivers can't stand to be reminded of what can happen to 'em in a racecar. They, they don't go to hospitals, they don't go to funerals. You get a driver to a funeral before he's actually dead, you've made history, darlin'.
Dr. Claire Lewicki: Control is an illusion, you infantile egomaniac. Nobody knows what's gonna happen next: not on a freeway, not in an airplane, not inside our own bodies and certainly not on a racetrack with 40 other infantile egomaniacs.
Tim Daland: He's destroyed both my cars. He destroyed both my cars. He's fired. You're fired. You're all fired.
Cole Trickle: Whoa. Her ass is all over the place.
Harry Hogge: When the rear end's loose, the car's fast. Loose is fast, and on the edge of out of control.
Dr. Claire Lewicki: Tell me what you love so much about racing.
Cole Trickle: Speed. To be able to control it. To know that I can control something that's out of control.
