The Test Drive Theory
June 29th, 2003Cars are somewhat more permanent than ice cream, I think. So with that thought, I'd like to update my Ice Cream Theory to the Test Drive Theory.
Here's how the Test Drive Theory goes.
Cars are somewhat more permanent than ice cream, I think. So with that thought, I'd like to update my Ice Cream Theory to the Test Drive Theory.
Here's how the Test Drive Theory goes.
There's a lot more to it than just stepping on the gas and going forward. The Art of Driving means becoming one with your car and understanding the world outside your car to achieve maximum speed/time efficiency while remaining respectful and safe.
I'm sad. I have to wake up now.
I drive a 2000 Ford Mustang. Convertible. White exterior, tan interior. 3.8 liter, 6 cylinder. Automatic. With the sports package.
It's basically a sports car with training wheels. GTs and Cobras with manual transmissions laugh in my face.
I was doing 50 mph on the 101 when the little car sped past me. There was a slippery sheen of rainwater on the highway and I was keeping pace with two other cars next to me. The little car poked through us and raced on ahead.
I normally would be doing the same speed it was, but with this rain, I didn't want to risk it. "That driver is nuts," I told myself as it weaved through us.
Don't fuck with the Flyin' Hawaiian, man. 'Cuz if you piss him off, he'll lash out and strike you down like the ignorant fool you are.
At a budding young age, a kid once picked on him. So Flyin' literally kicked the kid's ass. He kicked it so hard he broke the kid's tailbone.
I didn't really have a destination; it was just a casual journey with wind in my face, music in my ears, and speed at my hands. It was great.
But it didn't feel complete.
"Are you carrying any drugs or weapons?"
"No sir. Just camping gear. We just came back from Shenandoah."
"Right." The police officer turned to my friends in the car. "Okay boys, get out of the car."
We are a sleep-deprived society, I tell ya.
I was watching this 48 Hours news special a few weeks ago and one of the stories gave me quite a shock.
The cop would have caught me had I not had a Cajun McChicken Sandwich Meal.
I was doing a brisk 115 mph southbound on Interstate-5 on my way from San Francisco to Los Angeles. The sun was dimming and dinner time had passed a couple of hours ago. "Grrrr," complained my stomach.
Plus, I had to pee. More importantly, I had to pee.
I feel a great unity with my fellow Earth residents. Because on every continent, in every country, within every city, there is an asshole.
It's the Great Unifier. Truly.
They may speak a different language. They may eat different foods. But they are assholes just the same.