When the roads around town, between home and work, provide no relief. When you're feeling too many things bearing down on you...the way one of my favorite songs puts it:
"I have been in cities where the multitudes envelope me,The stations and the depots felt so cold.Looked up at the city spires, they couldn't build them any higher,A giant's teeth were clenched around my soul."
It's those times when you need an escape. You know, when you've given your last at the end of a too long day..."it's been a long month this week"...and you're not quite so exhausted that you can't do anything but collapse. That's physically tired; and when you're like that, that's just what you do...collapse on your bed, and then somehow you sleep it off and rally the next day.
No, I'm talking about emotionally tired. Times when your brain needs room to vent.
S P A C E.
When only open land will give it to you. Maybe it's farm fields, maybe the coastline, maybe it's the desert.
Maybe for you, it's Highway 1, heading North past San Simeon. Maybe it's the trip up Wyoming's Wind River Canyon. For others, Alligator Alley proves to be the right fit. Maybe it's Hwy 60, heading NW out of Phoenix. Who knows. But you've decided on how you want to spend this evening.
You find yourself pausing a bit as you walk up to it. You just waxed it the other day. It's a little dusty already, but not bad. A quick swipe with your finger confirms that the finish under the dust is still as slick as butter. You open the door...reverently?...something like that. It's different than coming up to just any other car. With this one, it's like approaching a thoroughbred. You do it with a mixture of reverence and awe.
You slip into the driver's seat. You pull the door shut, and hear that solid "thud." Listen to the silence for a moment...it's the last time you'll hear, or want to hear, that silence for a while. You turn the key, and the engine purrs, then roars to life. It's the sound of American Muscle, pure and powerful.
You move cautiously through the crowded streets around home. She (or he, if you have a male car) may be a bruiser, but it's still your baby and you never can trust other drivers too much. You finally reach your favorite stretch of road. A quick look around confirms...traffic is sparse or non-existent. Now is the time.
You give it some throttle. A little smirk crosses your face. Maybe you're one who stomps right to WOT; maybe you squeeze the peddle instead of stomp. Either way, we all seem to get to the same place: whipping down the road, sliding through the gears, and with each jump in speed and roll of pavement under the wheels, the stress seems to melt away. Soon, you find you're focused on sensations: the white lines flashing by on the blacktop ahead, the sound of the wind rushing past, the drone of the pipes underneath and behind you. You're in a zone, and you find you've relaxed deep into the seat. And it's then you notice your little smirk has turned into a big ol' grin. You ask yourself "when did that happen?" And eventually, you let off the throttle and let 'er slow on down. Because just like that thoroughbred, you have to let 'er cool down on the way back to the stable. But you have what you came for. You've reset your levels and refilled your tank...until next time.
This is your escape vehicle...your transport to sanity. Yours may have a name: The Mistress, HellBitch, Ares, or Maggie Mae. Maybe it's the Lady in Red, or Plain Jane, or The Interceptor. Maybe Loco, or the Batmobile, or Dr. Evil.
They go by many different names, but one thing is for sure. If you see me in mine, or one of my compadres in theirs, take a little care in what you say. Let me give you some advice: don't call it "a car."
Because you see, it's not just "a car," ... it's a MOPAR.
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