Me.
Faulty Brakes.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
I remember being strapped to the seat, being told not to tell anyone about the moment then. It would be our secret. The excitement was mine to share, but the experience was for no one but me.
Sideways, up, down, over, and under. Spinning in circles, sliding across the dirt. The world was nothing but a blur then - the only thing that kept me from throwing up was the fact that my eyes were glued to the shifting gears, the quick footwork, and the constantly moving hands - it was like a dance, all of it.
The man behind the wheel? My father. In his youth he was a test driver - he knew all the tricks, and this was his way of showing me something he was once passionate about. He told me then that it wasn't about how fast you could go - it was about how well you could keep yourself together.
I believe it was then that I learned to love being in a car. From that day onwards, I had my eyes on everything my father did when he was driving - it was a quiet learning process.
I was nine then.
***
My father was right. It was never about going fast - control was the game of the day. Control was the game of the week, the month, and the year. Control was - IS - everything.
My rear tyres have not changed since I first got my car. That means I've been running on them for four years now. The car slides a little even when I take corners at a mere 50km/h. Dangerous?
Fairly.
I'll change the tyres soon enough. For now, I'm enjoying the fact that there's little grip in them. Shit happens every once in a while - the car could slide when I don't want it to, when I'm not ready for it. And that's why I enjoy it. As reckless as it is, moments like those take away control from me, and allows me a single, life-changing chance to fight and get it back. And when I do, I remember that everything is within reach. Everything. I am capable.
Sure, there are other ways - different methods that'll provide you with the same result. But then, we each have different mediums. Different solutions. This is mine.
Life's a highway. Faulty brakes and tar as far as the eye can see. I can't stop the car, but I sure as hell can lift my foot off the accelarator and slow things down. I'll die on the road, and I'll never reach my destination - but I'll know that the journey was perfect.
Of course, what would a 22-year old know about life? Only as much as he's been through.
Given a certain level of thought byAdam Dewind at 12:24 PM