You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The feeling of rejuvenation.
We all get down. We all have a storm cloud swirling above our head from time to time.
How you find the sunshine on a cloudy day is what matters.
It’s February in Nashville. The sun is blazing and the mercury is teasing me with a 70 degree reading.
I am suppose to be writing or editing or doing something for the mother ship, but I just can’t get my heart and soul into it. So I take a break.
I walk outside and stare into the sunshine letting the warm rays of El Sol wash across my face, like the delicate caress of a woman who cares.
I stare at the parking lot and watch as the sunshine glimmers off parked vehicles.
I can see the clouds slowly meander by in the reflection of freshly washed cars.
I look at my little SUV. It is white. It is the Wonder Bread of vehicles. It is boxy and safe but not exactly attractive.
A prius has more sex appeal.
From over head I hear a hawk scream. I don’t see the majestic bird, but I know that sound. It immediately ignites a primal fuse.
A smile crosses my lips and within 5 minutes I’m at the Nissan dealership down the street.
I’m staring at a black on black 370 Z.
I’m Charlie in the chocolate factory and behind the glass there is a golden ticket.
I have a friend who is a salesman here. He throws the dealer tag in the back window and smiles.
“Ready”
Oh yeah.
6 speed. Top down. Push button ignition.
Vrooom and suddenly the sound of engine purring.
I look at myself in the rear view mirror, making a slight adjustment. I look freaking good. I feel freaking good.
After driving a milk carton around for the last 120,000 miles, I’m ready for an experience involving rubber, asphalt and horse power.
The sun emerges through the clouds and a beam of golden light shines down upon me.
Inside this light there is a voice. It is not the voice of God, but perhaps the voice of Magellan, or Columbus. Maybe it’s the voice of my ancestors who fought to cross the great divide. Maybe its the spirit of Alexander the Great ordering me to go forth and conquer.
“Drive it and you will come,” the voice says.
I am not even sure what that means, but it speaks to me and the next thing I know I am gunning the engine of this sweet little ride.
The salesman beside me says, “You know the area. Go where you want.”
Nice.
Go where you want. If only everything in life came with this mandate.
I engage the clutch and pop it into 1st gear.
Rrrrrroar.
It’s music to my ears. It sounds like a thousand caged tigers ready to eat raw meat.
After years of gasping and wheezing behind the wheel of a rolling milk crate, suddenly I am the conductor of a mechanical symphony.
I pull onto the surface street, the top down, the wind in my hair.
It’s beautiful. I feel the road vibration through the Z rated Pirellis, through the aluminium chassis through the air conditioned Recaro seats into my very appreciative ass.
Man this is nice. This must be what it’s like to be George Clooney’s ass cheek I think to myself.
I ask about the stereo, but honestly I don’t care.
The salesman begins to talk about Bose this and satellite xm radio that. I tune him out.
I want to hear the whine from 2nd and the shift into 3rd.
It’s delightful. Like an asphalt concerto.
It’s a Led Zeppelin crescendo as the motor rips through Whole Lotta Love.
I see a truck in the lane ahead of me. It is going slow. It is huge and it casts a shadow upon the Earth. I glance into my side view mirror. There’s an Escalade barreling up beside me, about ready to box me in.
Normally, in my milk carton on wheels, I’m trapped. I don’t have the power to pull out and pass before the Escalade crushes me.
Normally, I have to slow down, ride the truck’s bumper, waiting for the Escalade to pass.
It is a terrible feeling, like driving in a shoe box, waiting to die.
But today that shoe box is a stick of dynamite. Today I am alive and riding a wild stallion. In an instant, I decide I will not be imprisoned by this scenario, not today.
“Get up” I think as I drop down from 4th to 3rd. The tach winds into the 5000 rpm range. With a nudge of my finger, I pull left and punch the throttle.
Zoooom.
My head implants in the head rest and I shoot past the truck to my right. The Escalade is an object larger than it appears and shrinking fast in my side view mirror.
“Nice power, huh?” the salesman says still fiddling with the stereo.
I smile knowing this is the feeling I have been missing. This is the cog in my machine that has been absent.
A man driving a sports car later in life is a cliche to some. Women smirk and say he is compensating.
“He must have a small …”
We’ve all heard it.
But women don’t get it. It goes back to something in our 16 year old souls. It is about speed and living on the edge.
It’s that Mel Gibson moment when I want to paint my face, wear a kilt and scream “FREEDOM!”
Remember when you got your license and you waved goodbye to your folks and you pulled out of the driveway and turned the corner and you were on your own.
That’s the feeling I have now.
I get off at the next exit
“Is that all you want today,” the salesman asks.
I smile.
To drive any more would be torture.
If I don’t buy this car, and I continue to drive this car, I will eat my own arm.
It’s like staring at the Sports Illustrated cover and knowing you will never date this girl. At some point, enough is enough.
“That’s it,” I say feeling the sun shine down on me.
Maybe I’ll buy this car. Maybe I won’t. But I suddenly remember what it’s like to feel electric.
The rain cloud is gone, replaced by an electric pulse.
I feel rejuvenated.
All from a test drive.
And that’s crazy.