Today was one of those days where shit just wouldn't line up.

Turbulence at home, blaring texts, a phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, people seemed weirdly stand-offish, cold, or unhappy with my existence, 90 percent of my friendships were failing, and money’s tight. I had that fucked up feeling that everyone was against me.
I laid in my bed, alone, troubled, and thinking waaaay too damn much. It seems that our generation is plagued with people pointing out everything we do wrong, but fail to mention when we do right; I’d had it. I got myself together and got up.

A fresh pair of Levi's, T-shirt, my black and grey vans to wrap around my high all black Hanes socks, I was ready to go. The second I stepped outside and saw the back of my green car, every ounce of sadness and emotion switched in an instant to a kind of angry motivation. Walking around to the driver’s side I noticed the ground was still damp from the rains earlier, a faint but devilish grin crossed my face.

Got in, turned the key, blipped the throttle, and picked the destination that would have roads like a racetrack — I took the hell off. 
Every thought of drama was cancelled out by the shrill howl of the 3" exhaust trumpeting the music of a worked over inline six. The ground was wet, but all I could think to myself is, "you better not touch that brake.”

Fuck it.

Full throttle through curves I've only gone through in my dreams. That howl, the wood Nardi steering wheel under my palms; I was home. A silent film of mistakes I've made in life persisted, looping in my head threatening to dampen the adrenaline rush.

No, this was time to run. To free my mind.

I aimed that big blue and white BMW emblem at the apex and slammed my foot down nailing the limit of adhesion. My pads were already cooked from the initial downhill section so it was just me and the bimmer against the mountain.

Full throttle into second gear; I thought about my father.

Full throttle in third — my mother.

Reaching redline and approaching a wet corner tucked tight with a suggested speed of 25MPH was carved at around 110MPH. I rev match downshift into second, got a foot full of brake pedal scrubbing as much speed as I could before kicking that bitch sideways for the corner shot. Every kink was an event. A wall of rock shards on our right continually threatened to stab us at every apex; a tango of a dare with lady death. The thorough thrashing ended with a stop at the peak of the road where one false move promised an 800 foot plunge, ass first, into the Delaware ribbon below. Every star above us was so clear; too perfect to be real. There was no wind or sounds, or a single bar of cell reception; the moonlight and the breath of my green monster calming down from its snarl took their place. It was Friday night, and I went for a drive — this was bliss.

I fucking love this car.
editor's note:

if you didn't recognize the shred of ribbon in the first photo, it's located in Deerpark, in upstate New York. known as "Hawk's Nest," aside from being an attraction to anyone with two or four wheels,  this stretch of road was picked by Porsche Cars North America to film a 944 commercial c.1989...have a look at the video below; you'll remember.



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