Drive

There's something to be said about driving. The Beatles sang about it. So did the Beach Boys. Even Chuck Berry got in on it. Sammy Hagar let us know that he "can't drive 55" - because really, who can? There's even a band called Cars.

Getting behind the wheel - there's power. You become the master of a two-ton wrecking machine. Gas. Brake. Clutch. Windows rolled down - the top if you're lucky. Gripping the steering wheel, white knuckled with a cold sweat. Like your first fight, you look around, trying to anticipate what others around you are doing, but ultimately it doesn't matter. You're in control. For once, you are your own boss. Going as fast as you need to to get where you're going, if anywhere in particular.

Weaving in and out of traffic like Barry Sanders. Cutting left. Then jamming on the gas pedal to avoid getting rear ended. You're flying now. Look ahead, the left lane is clear. You glance in your mirror like you do when you're checking yourself out in a reflective window walking down the street. Not enough to be considered vein. Not enough to worry about anyone that might be behind you as you start gliding down the highway.

The music blares. Not any of that top-40 crap. The oldies can't handle the speed. Jazz doesn't provide enough of a rhythm. Rock. Rock will direct your speed - dictate to the world who's highway this is. It's yours. The drum beat. Your foot listens to and adopts the pace of the skin player - like you were in the rehearsals when the song was cut. Your thumb now taps along on the steering wheel - picking up the beat.

You can't understand the words. You've tuned out the singer - the song is all too familiar to you, anyway. Your eyes are darting. The side view mirrors. All you see are the reflection from the lights behind you as each person you pass becomes another statistic.

The road bends, you bend. The tires hug the corner like the women saying goodbye to their G.I. Joes for the last time. There's no tears here, just rubber. Concrete. Inches from smearing the car against the sidewall. It doesn't matter, you don't think twice as the cars vibrations are almost unnoticeable. It hums like when your mother would lay you down to go to bed as a baby. It's a calming hum.

The songs have changed - but you haven't noticed. You're still in the moment. You can't take the risk of taking your eyes off the road - the station stays put. The car in the left lane isn't going to keep up with you. In your head you execute the perfect maneuver to avoid them without having to lay off the gas - time, is of the essence. Your hands are wet - you rub them on your pants to dry off the cold sweat.

You know people are looking at you as you fly by - the bullet leaving them for dead. Dust. You don't have the luxury of looking to see who's in the car next to you, like all the other times you've been in the car. It's not for fear of anything other than knowing you're better than them. It's not a race, but, you're not losing.

You lean forward to check your blindspot. You move right. Quick. The exit is coming. You don't know how far - you've yet to read a sign. You've been here before, it's no different than all the other trips you've made before.

Check the blind spot again. Clear. You hit the off ramp and lay on the brake. You pull of the highway and park the car. The cold sweat is gone. Your heart is pounding like the bass drum as the music blares. You turn the key and step out of the car. You breathe.