I had a dream last night. . .
It was a hot Friday evening, the pavement sizzling though the sun was just about to clock out for the day.
Work stank today, in that "Where else you gonna get a job, loser?" sort of way. Fear and loathing in Lexington, yup. But, she waited.
She was hundreds of horsepower, rear wheel drive, and leather interior. She didn't run, she purred. Red--I've NEVER had a red car, but nothing else seemed to fit. Those 4 50-series tMIGHT last 10,000 miles, if I never drove hard.
Tonight was for driving hard.
Slide in, flip the ignition to 'run' just to hear the fuel pump engage. Six individual throttle bodies need lots of pressure, after all. Grind the starter. Yeah, baby...I know it's been a whole week. Sorry.
Clutch in, left and up for reverse, ease her out. Idle lopes along...cams, cams, cammmmms.... Lights on. It's twilight, but I don't want anyone missing me on the windy road as I speed by.
Coolant temp's coming up, but it'll be awhile before the oil warms. Still, out of the neighborhood, the throttle blips, and that punk in the Civic Si wrinkles his nose.
Five minutes later, I'm slamming down Ky 227, ridge running towards the sun, the windows down, the sunroof back, and the sweet sound of 7000 rpm in second echoing off every trailer and shack I pass. Rhythm builds. The sweetness of the steering and throttle dance, the seat gripping me.
That little girl at the elbow bend is back out tonight, she looks up and points. As I flash by, I see her mouth the words "Mommy, it's that GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUY!".
* * *
Then I woke up. Someday, maybe.
Work stank today, in that "Where else you gonna get a job, loser?" sort of way. Fear and loathing in Lexington, yup. But, she waited.
She was hundreds of horsepower, rear wheel drive, and leather interior. She didn't run, she purred. Red--I've NEVER had a red car, but nothing else seemed to fit. Those 4 50-series tMIGHT last 10,000 miles, if I never drove hard.
Tonight was for driving hard.
Slide in, flip the ignition to 'run' just to hear the fuel pump engage. Six individual throttle bodies need lots of pressure, after all. Grind the starter. Yeah, baby...I know it's been a whole week. Sorry.
Clutch in, left and up for reverse, ease her out. Idle lopes along...cams, cams, cammmmms.... Lights on. It's twilight, but I don't want anyone missing me on the windy road as I speed by.
Coolant temp's coming up, but it'll be awhile before the oil warms. Still, out of the neighborhood, the throttle blips, and that punk in the Civic Si wrinkles his nose.
Five minutes later, I'm slamming down Ky 227, ridge running towards the sun, the windows down, the sunroof back, and the sweet sound of 7000 rpm in second echoing off every trailer and shack I pass. Rhythm builds. The sweetness of the steering and throttle dance, the seat gripping me.
That little girl at the elbow bend is back out tonight, she looks up and points. As I flash by, I see her mouth the words "Mommy, it's that GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUY!".
* * *
Then I woke up. Someday, maybe.
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