New Jersey, 1957

His head hurt. His chassis hurt. His struts hurt. His wheels hurt.
Wheels? He didn't have wheels, he was a hover vehicle. And the ground didn't feel like Cybertron. It felt like a lot of loose grainy particles.
Then he remembered the scouting ship's crash. He and two others had been sent on a recon mission to an organic planet but something had gone wrong when they had cloaked for a landing. The planet was already inhabited and they had been ordered to stay hidden and disguise themselves immediately. But something had gone wrong and he couldn't remember what. He couldn't even recall who had been with him.
He tried to get his bearings and figure out where he was -- and what direction was up for that matter. His sensors were malfunctioning; he was also aware of a problem with his transformation cog. He was about to try to move when he heard voices.
"You okay, Rick? That was quite a tumble you took."
Someone very nearby groaned. "Yeah...I'm okay. I don't know what went wrong. It's like the steering wheel jerked out of my hands and the car drove itself."
"Drove itself off that little cliff? It must think you're a lousy racer." The first voice had relief in it as its owner laughed. "C'mon, let's get you up and get that car some new wheels. One thing you can say, it's built solid. You don't have anything broken and that car's not as dinged up as you'd think."
I'm made from stronger alloys than that, he thought to himself after realizing he was the car they were talking about. He didn't know how he came to be in the hands of this Rick fellow but he hoped the memory files would return over time.
"Second time I've lost dirt track tires on this thing. But I'm not giving up. I'm still planning on going to Middletown this season."
"Maybe you should try a different car. It's still a sweet Corvette, though. And scoring an SS..."
"You don't have to tell me, Bud. That's why I want to keep practicing, and keep trying those tires. But I wonder if it wants those tires."
"Riiight. 'Cause the car can pick and choose."
The conversation stopped and he felt himself being pushed, flat tires thumping awkwardly as he was moved so the humans could more easily change the tires. He sent duplicate commands through his main processor to effect internal repairs, waiting for data to resurface in the meantime. He wasn't sure how he felt about being at the mercy of these beings. Yet they were nothing but careful the entire time and he found he didn't mind the occasional pat to his hood or doors. Actually, he rather liked the attention. Whatever a Corvette was, it seemed to be an admired vehicle type, given the way the conversation went as they started talking again. He set aside his repair concerns and listened, learning.

"We'd like to give everyone a warm welcome to the 1957 Middletown 500!"
Crowds were cheering and the sun was shining high in the cloudless blue sky. It was a great day for racing and the number seventeen car was looking forward to it; he felt like he was reliving the days before he became serious about involvement in the war, and he liked it. It was even better hot-rodding here on Earth because there were even more spectators and the team effort backing up the vehicle had its advantages. He had even gotten used to those dirt tires.
Bright blue pennants with his number on a white stripe were everywhere. There were chants for "Rick Hillsmann", "Corvette", and "Seventeen". He had to admit, Rick was an excellent racer and he had appreciated learning to even accept a driver due to the human's skill. They were in the top five of their class and this race was sure to be another victory.
The cheers grew louder. The checkered was about to wave. He revved his engine and beneath the smooth noise it sounded as if he could be laughing in exhilaration at the coming thrill.

New York, 1963

"Number seventeen takes the win! Another record time for Rick Hillsmann!"
Compliments were abound in the winner's circle, many about the successfully rebuilt body of the SS into an updated Sting Ray. It had been a long process and they had missed a racing season, but he was glad for the modification. The fans were there in full force when Rick announced his return and they loved the new look.

Ten years later a skiing accident led to Rick retiring from racing. He still hung out at the track from time to time and brought his car to a few shows, but otherwise the blue Corvette was retired to the garage. In 1980 Rick sold the car to a collector who placed it amongst several other vintage vehicles on display.
He missed racing but life was fair in the collector's care. The man had a refined taste in decor, music, and the like. Cybertron seemed a distant memory and Earth culture was fascinating. Admirers still came by so it wasn't all that bad not being on the track anymore.
But it was bad one day when someone became greedy, broke into the showroom, and made off with four of the cars.

New York, present day

"This 'Vette is a beaut even with the damaged fender and wrecked tires. Bet I can fix it up in no time." Someone with a Spanish accent was shifting around along his side. He sensed it, but felt like he wasn't entirely aware of what was going on. "Whoa..This engine is outta this world. Might as well start here. Wonder what this clipped cable is for. I know I got some electrical tape around here. Those wires should wind back together enough to see what it does..."

"...I said, my name is Tracks. Who are you?"
"...R-Raoul."
"Well, Raoul, I would appreciate if you would please repair me. I've been stolen, shot at, and crashed three times today, and I'm in a most foul humor."