FLINT, Michigan — You almost can smell the adrenaline, if it wasn't for the burning rubber and exhaust fumes permeating the cool night air.

It’s late — or rather, really early on a summer night. Still, hundreds of spectators gather under the amber glow of streetlamps for an unauthorized thrill.

Street racing — the city of Flint’s worst kept secret.

A young man stands over the center line on a long stretch of James P. Cole Boulevard on Flint’s north side, just a stone’s throw from the concrete wasteland of Buick City, an icon of Flint’s storied past.

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Street racing — the city of Flint’s worst kept secret.

A young man stands over the center line on a long stretch of James P. Cole Boulevard on Flint’s north side, just a stone’s throw from the concrete wasteland of Buick City, an icon of Flint’s storied past.

He beckons with a point of his fingers, ushering two American-made muscle cars to the makeshift starting line — unashamedly painted on the road for all to see day and night. Engines rev in anticipation of the coming challenge.

At the end of the strip — about one-eighth of a mile down — a set of headlights blinks on and off. The timer is ready.

The young man at the starting line raises his hands in the air. He looks both drivers in the eye. Then, in one swift movement, he brings his arms and body down to kneel on one knee, signaling the start of the race.

Engines roar to life. Tires squeal.

The cars are gone.