Muscle is for cars, too

I like power. I like it in myself, and I like it loud and throaty in a car. One with a V8, to be exact, one with kicked up catback exhaust and K&N air filters, 17 inch tires, a five speed manual transmission, and close to 300 horsepower. I like it in my new-to-me Mustang GT convertible.

I like driving a car with power. I like shrieking with delight and hope that a cop’s not around as I accidentally peel out from a red light. (I like red lights, too, when I’m the first at  the light). I like the pause between (loud) songs so I can revel in that deep rumble of the engine ready to leap out from under me if I put my foot flat. I like making the trip from point A to point B as much about the fun of the journey as it is the destination. I like leaving other drivers sitting as Black Betty (yes I named the car) streaks past in a frenzy of shifting gears and crimson tail lights. I like a connection with the road, hair frothing in the wind, a grin splitting my face as I find joy in a new place.

I like thinking of driving as not a chore but a sport – one that takes as much skill and precision as any athletic endeavor. I think I’d best get myself to a track soon.

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