Slow Down, You Go Too Fast

My love muffin has, for years, asked me curtail my enthusiasm.  But the feeling of the wind in my hair and the power of a V8 proves difficult to restrain.  As my nondescript and unassuming mom-mobile gently purrs as she hugs the inner curves of a turn and happily hums on the thoroughfares, highways and byways, I know my spousal unit is right.  I must discipline myself to lighten my lead foot, and slow down and smell the roses.

My love affair with cars started forty years ago.  My dad was a collector and eagerly shared his fervor of the automobile with me.  He lovingly hand washed our cars in the driveway every weekend and preached the benefits of keeping your car in tip-top shape.  Wax was applied regularly and whitewalls made to sparkle from a special spray treatment.  From the knee of the master I learned everything about the intricacies of our beloved symbol of freedom.  I think I was the only 8 year old in the know of checking and changing oil.

My dad was wise; before I learned how to drive I had been smitten with the care of the vehicle and I bought into the theory of caring for such a huge investment.  When I did learn how to drive, in the big parking lot (void of any detractors or obstacles) I could hardly contain myself.  The feeling of power was pure ecstasy and the freedom it implied was exhilarating.  I was determined to let nothing be ahead of me but open road.

I grabbed all the gusto I could.  I was intrigued with drag racing and set out to learn everything it took to do it.  My dad escorted me to the track (smart guy, and I thought it was just for the father/daughter bond thing and in fact he carried a pretty good set of eagle eyes and the ability to deter possible interludes that presented themselves to me) to get a first hand account of the goings on.  A behind-the-scene taste of the “pits” at Indianapolis, during time trials, was the hook that didn’t let me go.  Never even occurred to me that a girl couldn’t, or shouldn’t, try this sport and besides, I had my dad by my side for moral support.

So I must say I come by speed honestly.  After a go at moto-cross racing (which I think my father thought might be safer), I became captivated by the quarter mile drag, stock car racing.  I was out at the track almost every Saturday night in high school trying my luck with a stock ’70 Nova…a tradeoff of sorts with a boyfriend (if I washed it, detailed it, kept it filled with gas, I could race it – it sure seemed like a good idea at the time).

Then life happened and my days of racing were put aside for academic pursuits and other time consuming shocks of reality.  Even though the spirit and desire is still willing and able, for the sake of argument and the love of my betrothed, I have slowed down almost to the speed limit.  I have noticed and appreciated more flowers, people, shops and restaurants that, in the past, I may have blazed by.  I enjoy having my car windows open with the fresh breeze whiffing through (the sound vibration from opened widows, at speed, is a bit tough on the ears).  And, I must admit, I do get better gas mileage when the speed is kept subsonic.  In the end, I do get to all the places I need to, albeit a bit later which gives me the time to ponder why everyone is in such a hurry and passing me up or blowing their horns to speed by me.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.         

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-