Flying On The Ground Is Wrong

Flying On The Ground Is Wrong

And fast cars, baby.

I got to have some good ol' fashioned redneck fun with some contractors today, the kind of fun that can land your ass in a small room overnight while pigs in blue poke you with sharp sticks and refer to you as a degenerate for merely putting yourself and others in high-speed danger. I scoff at their nonsense.

For today I sat behind the wheel of a shiny black 1977 Chevorlet Chevelle. Deja vu was running rampant in my veins, because years ago, I'd done this very thing - one of my best friends in high school had let me drive his '77 Chevelle, which he'd put similar work into that the contractor had his. This was a big gas-guzzling motherfuckbeast souped up for action.

Back then, I'd done the approximately 40 minute drive from the south end of Ft. Wayne to Marion in 17 minutes, with my friend's brother glued to the back window screaming "I see a cop! I see a cop!" the whole time.

There were no cops. Hardly any other cars. I think I passed six of them the whole way. Not that I was counting anything other than what was on the dashboard.

165, if memory serves. Hoo boy. That's a form of adrenaline that will both give you wood and scare the whimpering shit out of you, Bubba.

I followed the contractors to the north end of the county, one of them driving his modified Camaro. The Chevelle was at the other guy's house, along a three-mile stretch of county road that I was assured only had a 1 in 10 likelihood of carrying other vehicles while we took our little joyride.

There was space on each side of the road for a car to plow through the grass. I asked the Chevelle owner if he ever had to take to the grass on one of these once-a-week journeys they do.

"A couple times", he flashed a Neandrathal grin. Big Toby Keith fan, this one."Ain't hit nobody yet!" A giant corn-dog fuelled cackle.

Today, I thought to myself, I might finally learn if there is an afterlife.

We pulled out to the end of the road. Me in the pasenger seat of the Chevelle. Two guys in the Camaro. Hoots and hollers filled the air.

Did I mention that it was raining like a motherfuck all day?

I think I know what g-forces are now. I watched the needle hit sixty before I'd completely drew breath, and one hundred before I was half done exhaling. Sumbitch, these fuckers can move...

It was over as fast as it began. One massive rush of adrenaline, ending at a stop sign three miles and what felt like three seconds later. We'd gone through one intersection that had no sign for us, trusting that the poor fools coming the other way would follow theirs.

The Chevelle won. By a long margain, too. The Camaro never stood a chance.

He turned around and came to a stop, reached for the door. "Your turn!"

I hadn't expected this...

Part of me - the part that hangs onto such quaint outmoded notions as safety and longevity of life - began to protest, but my better instincts won out. It's been 18 years since that trip from Ft. Wayne. Time to roll, baby. Time to fuckin' roll.

The other car traded drivers as well. And I took the wheel.

I looked to the sky to see if there were any bats. I thought of Hunter, and wondered if they sing the song of the sausage creature up there in Heaven, where Hunter undoubtedly is racking up quite an impressive room service bill.

Jesus creeping shit. No turning back now, Dougie.

The rain still came down, but we rolled our windows down for this one. B, the Camaro's new alternate driver, yelled "You fuckers ready?"

"Eat my tire remnants, motherfucker!" I howled into the wind. More hoots and hollers. I was in some kind of modern Dukes Of Hazzard, and I'll be damned if I wans't loving it.

He hit his gas before I did, but I hit mine harder. We overtook the Camaro in nanoseconds. My passenger screamed "They NEVER beat this car, bitch!"

When we went through the one intersection, I saw the needle hit 140. Only one response was correct in this situation.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

My passenger threw his head back and screamed it as well. I thought I heard a long series of e's from somewhere behind, but that was probably my fevered imagination as I realized something...

I had to STOP this fucking thing.

In the other direction there had been a stop sign, but road had stretched in front of it. Perhaps for miles.

Mere seconds from me was another stop sign. At the end of a road, an empty cornfield directly in front of my path.

135.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Ahh, fuck it.

I slammed the brakes, but not TOO hard. There was a delicate balance to be found here, for sure, I just didn't know where the fuck it was.

The Camaro was at least ten car lengths behind as my tire remants presented themselves to its driver.

The Camaro came to a stop at the sign. I had overshot it by just enough that three-quarters of the car was off the road.

I exchanged high-fives and yee-haws with my new comrades in arms as we went in the house for a beer before darkness fell.

An 8-year old girl met us at the door. "Daddy, you're gonna get killed doing that."

Laughter all around. Except from his wife.

But she was the one passing out the beer, so it was all good.

I pulled out of the gravel driveway in my Saturn. I thought about spinning the new tires, but why? Like my car stood a chance in hell against the mighty Chevelle.

I drove off to an open-house at Katie's school. A shot of domestication probably was necessary.

Ah yes, this is what life is all about. Four good old boys in souped up machines just before sundown on a weeknight in Butler County, Ohio. Just off work. Waiting for light beer. Twisted on adrenaline and speedism.

Good people.

Love,
Dougie