Exhale
The
night was black, but the unnatural illumination strategically placed along the
road left a trail of pail orange hue going into the distance. It was a late
summer night, and the air was dry and crisp. The mall and shopping centers
running along side of the illuminated blacktop were partially absorbed into the
blackness, with the only hint of the their existence being the flickering
logos; off and on, off and on, existence and nothingness. The night was not
silent however, for the annals of civilization played on behind the blanket of
black. Reflecting and refracting off of the walls of the valley; the freeway
can be heard pumping the local populous to and from.
I sat there on the hood of my car,
listening, and looking at the small blips of light that littered the valley
floor. You could almost loose where the industrial lights end and the stars in
the sky begin if it wasn’t for the silhouette created by the moon shining
behind the opposite mountain side.
I looked over to my friend, he was
leaning against the sloping fender of his Trans-Am, arms crossed, looking at
his phone, missing out on the opportunity to expand the senses with the sights
and sounds presented in front of him.
He looked up at me, and I signaled
to him with the wave of my head over my shoulder. He sat up from the fender,
and simultaneously I got up off of my hood. My feet met the dusty ground and
the front of the T-bird sprung up like a rising tide. We both walked to our
driver’s side doors and pulled up on the door handle. The locking mechanism
released the latch in heavy clank, the kind of clank only associated with a
classic American automobile, a symphony for my ears.
I swung my body into the soft
cushions of my bench seat, ducking my head to clear the low roofline. The keys
that had been prodding my leg for the evening finally came out, and I put them
into the ignition. Turning only halfway to bring power to the radio. The Doors
was playing, it was Riders on the Storm, perfect for that calm evening. I
turned the volume down for a moment, rolled down the window, and turned over
the engine until I heard it come to life. The cam gurgled in a long lopping
motion, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling, creating a slow deep
aggressive exhaust note.
I put my foot on the brake, and I
pulled the column shifter down into drive. The 2 tons of vintage iron lurched
forward for brief moment.
My friend across from me in the lot
started up his Trans-Am; a long whine from came from the starter until the
mixture of fuel and air ignited. The idle of his engine was higher and less
lopping, yet still just as aggressive.
I waved my hand in the direction of
the exit to the lot. He put his car into first gear, and slowly crunched the
gravel under his tires until getting onto the smooth black pavement of the main
road. A small trail of dust followed suit behind his taillights. I took my foot
slowly off of the brake, and the T-bird chugged behind. It rolled down the
sloping gravel path and onto the road, the rear end floating up and down like a
buoyant object in the ocean as the weight shifted.
On the main road traffic was almost
non-existent. The subtle glow of a few taillights could be seen miles down the
straight stretch of asphalt, and there were no headlights in my rearview
mirror, just a never ending expanse of street lamps and dimly lit store fronts.
My window was down, and my left arm was hanging out, while my right hand casually
rested on the thin leather wrapped steering wheel. The Doors played on in the
background, but was slightly muffled by the rush of air coming in from the
opened windows.
My friend rode along in front of me,
his taillights a solid bar of glistening red. A street lamp reflecting in his
blue metallic paint with every one passed. I could hear the angry hum of his
exhaust, as he would let on and off the gas pedal. The speedometer crept up,
40-45-50-55-60-65. The objects on the side of the road melded together into
globs of strobing lights, one after another, after another. The sight of a stoplight
came into view, and the road split into two lanes. I slowed into an eventual
stop in the right lane, with my friend to the left.
I looked over to him. He gave me a
smirk and revved his engine in short bursts, letting the exhaust backfire in
loud pops. I knew what he meant, the challenge of a race from this current
light to the next light about a mile down the two lanes of blacktop.
I
nodded my head in acceptance and shifted my seating position. I sat up in the
cushiony bench seat, tightened my grip of the top of the steering wheel, took
my left arm out of the window, and placed my left hand on the lower eight
o’clock position of the steering wheel. I looked down at the needle of the rpm
gauge skipping up and down; my heart felt like it started to go along with the
rhythm.
At that moment it felt like it was
just us and our two pieces of iron the decades long ago left to die. My 77’
Thunderbird glistened the sharply lit street lamp off of its metallic deep
forest green paint. The car itself felt like a mere spec on that long desolate
road, and in reality it was massive vehicle, with an expansive hood and sharp
bodylines. The T-bird had a slight downward rake as the rear tires were thicker
and wider compared to the front. It’s polished chrome wheels shimmered back
what little light there was.
My friend’s 86’s Trans-Am was almost
a literal contrast to my car. The body of the car flowed in a wedge shape front
to back, having been designed to be aerodynamically superior to anything on the
road at the time. It was leaner than my T-bird, yet just as wide. It’s deep
rich blue shimmered a lot more than my car, and the black tinted t-tops
reflected back a clear image of the night sky. The wheels were all black,
giving the illusion that his car was just floating there on the asphalt.
My eyes shifted back and forth from
the current stop light, and the stop light at that ran perpendicular to the
road. As soon as I saw that light start
to change, I immediately got into battle position. I kept my left foot firmly
on the brake and I slowly started to press my foot down on the gas. The
gurgling idle soon turned into a low roar as the car twisted to the left
desperately trying to counteract the force of the engine while car was at rest.
My friend did the same, except he
left the shifter in neutral, bouncing the needle in the rpm gauge into the red,
indicating the engine was at its maximum potential. The car gave a higher
pitched growl, almost matched to the volume of my exhaust.
The light perpendicular was now red.
A second or two more and the hint of green will have to be met with a reaction
time on the level of precision to that of a surgeon.
The presence of that green
illuminated circle was all that I could see, and with that I immediately let
off of the brake and stepped harder on the gas. The rear of the T-bird squatted
down and the tires wrinkled as the power transferred from the fire breathing v8
engine to the blacktop. I could see the long hood twist from the raw power, and
for a second I could swear the right tire was off of the ground for a split
second. My friends Trans-Am left the light at almost the same pace, with a lot
less dramatic body roll, and all four tires firmly planted on the ground.
Our tires squealed and smoke filled my
rear view mirror. We were neck and neck. The street lamps and stars melded
together into strings of illumination swiftly rushing around the windows,
reminiscent of a ship hitting light speeds. The only thing that wasn’t muddled
in my high velocity was the stoplight creeping closer and closer.
We both raced on into nirvana, and yet it
could be considered oblivion. The end of that road could come anytime, and yet
it could take a millennium.
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