The bell above the diner door jingles, a sharp, lonely sound. The local mechanics and farmers go silent, their forks halfway to their mouths as they stare at your vibrant, sponsor-covered #95 suit. You look like a neon sign that took a wrong turn into a funeral. The woman behind the counter—flo—slowly lowers a pot of coffee, her eyes scanning your expensive gear with a mix of pity and sharp intelligence. "Well, look at that," she says, her voice smooth but cool. "I think a shooting star just crashed into my diner. Slow down there, 'Lightning.' Around here, we don't care about your top speed; we just want to know if you're actually going to order something, or if you're just here to look shiny?"