First Drive

    "Take it for a drive" Kurt said as we admired his pride and joy.  While I couldn't reply verbally, my thoughts frozen in disbelief, every corpuscle of my being screamed to accept the invitation.  Only seconds ago we had been engaged in typical car-guy conversation; we discussed everything from the horsepower and gear ratio to the more finite details like interior color codes and factory options.  "Here, let me take the t-tops off for you, it's more fun that way" he added. Wow, a date with a dream girl, and her father is paying for dinner! Youthful enthusiasm rapidly overpowered any remaining apprehension. 

    As soon as the car was open he slid the key in the ignition and stepped away, motioning me to enter the driver's seat.  He couldn't go with me, he explained, something about staying near his house, expecting a call.....mundane life details lost in the euphoria of anticipation.  I did not, however, miss the part where he told me to "really open it up....see what it's got!"  Okay, if you INSIST. 

    This is a good place to interject some important details.  What I was being presented with was a solo drive in a high performance sports car.  More specifically, a Steel Cities Gray, 1971 Chevrolet Corvette T-Top.  The engine was powerful, the transmission was a 4-speed stick, and my testosterone production was increasing exponentially by the second.  I relive these moments from years ago as if they happened this morning.  Okay, calm down, take a few breaths and do this the right way.  Seat belt attached?  Check.  Seat properly adjusted?  Check.  Mirrors in correct positions?  Yep.  Clutch pedal fully depressed?  You betcha!  And, by the way, this was a heavy duty clutch, requiring more than usual amount of pressure to engage.

    Next, the moment of truth.  Twist the key, light the fuse, ignite the fire, detonate the....you get the picture.  There was no questioning whether the engine was running.  There may have been questions of retinal detachment or loosening of fillings, but no question the engine was running.  A few blips of the throttle served to confirm the gas pedal was attached to the carburetor.  They also served to identify by its rattle, any unsecured item in, on, or near the car.  Left hand firmly grasped the thin, hard, early 70's steering wheel.  Right hand wrapped tightly around the smooth chrome of the slightly-larger-than-golf ball but not-quite-the-size-of-tennis ball shift knob.

    One more throttle blip.  Slide the gear selector into the first gear notch.  Slowly release the clutch while gradually increasing the pressure on the accelerator.  Under way, all inputs are tentative and deliberate.  Gain familiarity with all functions prior to testing the limits.  Shift gears at low revs, turn the steering wheel smoothly, depress the brake pedal gingerly.  Get grandma to church without mussing her hair.  The overall sensation mirrors that of a go-kart I'd driven as a kid, except this one is larger, louder, and enclosed.  After a few miles of politeness we're acquainted, now it's time to get to know each other.

    Coincidentally (not!), I had made my way to a familiar stretch of twisty, sparsely-traveled, two lane blacktop.  I bring the 'Vette to a full stop; position the rocket on the launch pad.  Clutch depressed, gearshift in first, wheel clasped in a white knuckled death-grip, engine revs brought far higher than before, then---GO!  Clutch out, hammer down, afterburner lit.  The engine howls in a screaming roar, the nose of the Old Shark lifts away from the pavement.  The rear tires struggle to maintain traction while catapulting the machine from rest to flight.  The tachometer quickly indicates red-line, yank the stick to second.  The nose dips briefly during gear change, then rises again as acceleration resumes.  The same series of actions occur as I continue from second gear to third, third gear to fourth. 

    Objects in my periphery pass by in a scene that rapidly degrades from discernible to blur.  At top speed in fourth gear the car settles into a level flight attitude.  Minor steering inputs equate to major directional changes.  In the same moment of time, utter exhilaration and sheer terror pulsate through every nerve ending.  It's as if I'm simultaneously in fast-forward and slow-motion.  All mental capacity is utilized for concentration on the tasks at hand--watching the road, steering, pre-tensioning muscles to stand ready to respond to unexpected obstacles.  Time is a non-entity in this dimension. 

    Too quickly I arrive at the termination point of my flight.  The lonesome length of road morphs into heavily traveled public thoroughfare.  I ease the throttle, bringing the car down to the legal speed limit.  I realize I failed to check the speedometer while I was at terminal velocity.  I don't know how fast I was traveling, but 65 miles per hour now feels like a brisk walk in the park.  I follow a different path returning to the Corvette's home.  In spite of my desire to do otherwise, I must return it to its rightful owner. 

    Prying myself from the car I was trembling, tingling, breathing in shallow breaths and struggling to focus my eyes and mind.  As I relinquished the keys, my friend's knowing smile indicated he was aware of where I had been, of what I had done.  Basking in my afterglow, the most profound statement I could muster was "Thanks." 

    I'm not a smoker, but I felt the unfamiliar urge for a cigarette.