Eric Clapton's voice drifts lazily into the night air. The street lights flashed by, silhouetting my face by strips of yellow lightining repeating itself endlessly.
...I said my darling...you look wonderful...tonight...
My hands are firmly fixed in the 10 to 2 o clock positions. Gilles Villeneuve, the late F1 superstar, abided by this fanatically. If it was good enough for him, it's good enough for me.
The night breeze rushes past, the windows wound down. I let the rush push me back, forceful, but gentle. Strong enough to know that it's there. That it's making a difference. It knows that I am in control. I can decide how fast the wind is blowing into my face, my neck, my hair.
The pinnacle of the overhead is nearly there. My left foot pushes down on the clutch, driving it forwards, jamming my soles into the floor. Left hand moves down. Enclosed the gear stick with my palm. I nudged it forward, quietly anticipating the slight jarring right about....now. Thud. I pulled closer sideways, pushed forward. Clutch free as my right toe pushed downwards, the brakes untouched.
Thud, thud. The whirr of the engine drones on, comforting me with its monotony.
At this point, I am reminded of a phrase in an article about Ferrari's pit crew:
Everything - even reaction to the totally unexpected - is carried out with metronomic precision: click-click-click.
Metronomic - mechanically or unvaryingly regular in rhythm
I am driving nowhere. It is 1:43am according to the car clock. In reality, it's somewhere slightly before 1:30am. The clock is set some time forward.
Ahead, a bend approaches, I lift slightly, letting it come on to me, before firmly gripping the wheel with both hands, neck almost unconsciously sided to my left, slowly...slowly...
The car swerved, slowly, but not losing its speed. The tyres picked up grip beautifully, friction warming the tarmac as it controlled my Satria's descent.
It never fails.
The bump approaches. I flinch slightly, but not bothering to swerve pout of the way. The tyres, the suspension can handle it.
I know this car. It knows me. I can push the pedal this hard, pull the steering wheel this left, swerve and friction forcefully, and I know exactly what it will do. How much it will stop when I touch the brakes, how the front-bottom-left light isn't working, how the dent near that is caused by the time I grazed a stationary Mitsubishi pick up, slightly missing my friend's sister, the tin-can passed off as its body not quite near the level of Stuttgart metal.
I know how it will scythe its way through the air nonetheless, the particles respectfully pushed aside, a sea of the invisibles giving way to the galloping knight.
I am in control of everything.
I am king.