I drive fast. A lot faster than I should on public roads (ostensibly), and likely faster than you. I drive too fast through twisty technical touges* and haul screaming hot fiery ass on open freeways. I have participated in street races in similar environs. Driving acts as my simultaneous escape from, and communion with, reality. I feel like an exhibitionist writing this piece. The act of describing the enjoyment I get from my most cherished pastime feels a little like describing to you what fun I can have with a cucumber, some WD-40, and a lot of chutzpah. Perhaps this arises from the social stigma attached with driving fast, and or the intimate pleasure I get from it. I find driving to be a knob on my proverbial excitement controls. It can easily be cranked from the level of stoked to pet a cat, to the thrill and sensory overload comparable to my teenage self losing my virginity, each second subdivided into an universe of corrections and inputs. Having to apply that bit of opposite lock to maintain course each nanosecond, applying a hint of trail-braking to rotate at the apex. Rolling with the punches is sublime. When I put it like that, I feel like I at least deserve some sympathy. How could you blame someone for having so much fun? Well I suppose the fact that my fun can have serious ramifications to others would suffice for reason to blame.
I am not entirely sure why I am writing this. Is this supposed to be a confession? Bragging? To get a sick rise from your disapproval? Maybe it’s all of the above. I feel that I must open my views up to public discourse, yet I doubt it will change my behavior. Does that make me an addict? Maybe it does. Maybe I like that. Perhaps street racing and speeding are my ways are creating the illusion that I am some neerdowell without cares for your rules. The black sheep son of the road.
The desire for prowess must lie somewhere at the root of what I do. Trying to prove some elementary school bully wrong by being the faster driver on some stretch of tarmac. I’ll show that little fucker who can play handball better now! It may be inner fulfillment I am seeking out. Knowing that each smidgin of speed I can eek out goes toward some universal tally of actualisation. I drive faster therefore I am? It is not so far fetched to see someone finding fulfillment in improving a skill they enjoy, even if that skill entails pushing the limits of grip in a vehicle doing about twice the speed limit. I’m quite sorry if reaching for these metaphors seems strained like the spasmodic flailing of geriatric intercourse. These seem to be the only things I can say other than, “I think driving is fun!” Maybe this lack of easy communication points to some primordial satisfaction, not able to be conveyed through the shackles of language. This primal appeal lies somewhere along the lines of playing with fire.
I am quite sure that my addiction is an exercise in control. My life can be seemingly spiralling out of control, yet I can still control my car. My grades suck, I’m sick, and the person I had a sweet spot for is now dating some too genuine and sweet Mr. Perfect. He listens to all those quirky bands, has all of those vintage clothes that fit him perfectly, has a dashingly asymmetric haircut, and seems all too genuine when asking “How are you?” I also can’t stop thinking about my imminent mortality, and the other banal torments of existence. I can still step into my car, find a good mountain road, and dance through the corners. Once I am committed to a maneuver there is usually no going back. I am often helpless to the flow of actions. I cannot realistically choose to floor it mid corner. All that matters then is my control over my car and my situation’s control over me. The clubhouse has a sign. Nothing else is allowed. I’ve been told that I seem completely consumed while driving fast. Time seems to slow down a little, and each movement and augmentation is a purely cold rational action. You can’t have emotion and drive well. Letting the ego get in the way of physics is rarely good. Like letting your ego get in the way when there is still another 8 inches of cucumber.
Through this exercise in control, I can step out of my car at the end of a long drive and look at life anew. To be filled with the knowledge that we are one mistake away from it all being over, and knowing that I don’t make those mistakes. You are still here. Rejoice! I dont get a huge rise out of drugs, fucking, exercise, or academic achievement anymore. I might just be too desensitized at this point to appreciate these more conservative forms of leisure. And therein lies the problem, there is a need for escalation. It’s a game of diminishing returns. The faster I go, the less exciting it is. There is a persistent nagging feeling of knowing where I could brake later, accelerate earlier, and carry a little bit more speed. I’ll have to draw the line at some point. But where? When is enough enough? I fear that I won’t know when to make that call, and that it will result in tragedy.
I think I now know why I am writing this. It’s a preemptive apology. At some point I will have to answer for what I do, and writing that answer down is an attempt to absolve myself of past and future sins. I’m sorry that the scared little boy, or the endorphin seeking caveman in me aren’t well contained. I am sorry that I know better, but choose to do what I do. I am sorry that I may some day self-destruct in a haze of tire smoke, vaporized clutch, and one last look of terror.
*Touge: Japanese for a twisty mountain road