G-forces press me back into my seat as goose bumps arise in response to the cacophony of combustion.  Foliage rushes past, but my eyes stay glued to the road.  The car devours it with an insatiable hunger.  I move the wheel like a surgical instrument but I command the gearstick like Thor’s hammer.  It is glorious.

Throughout my life I’ve liked cars.  I always played with the little models cars, and drew pictures of them.  Car fantasies looped endlessly on my mind’s projector screen.  At a very early age, I figured out that I was destined to automotive engineer, to be the one who draws up the plans for those iconic machines.  Mansions, lavish parties, boats, and such were never things I desired to be part of my adult life.  Never, however, did I envision a future in which I did not find myself behind the wheel of my very own sports car.  Because of this, in my world, sports cars have been elevated to a status that transcends their physical properties and speaks to the symbolic meaning that they hold for me.  They represent an endpoint, a point at which I have reached my goals.

I want to make an important distinction.  In my adult life, I aim to purchase a sports car, not a sporty car.  Though similar sounding, they possess significant differences.  Sports cars are purpose built, pure, undiluted speed-machines.  Their aggressive stance and unapologetic, striking aesthetics leave no doubt that they abuse the asphalt as they carry out their business.  Sporty cars are simply pretenders.  Their purpose in life is to sucker rich people out of ten grand because their massive egos can’t let them resist checking the sports option on their luxury sedan order form.  Their investment usually earns them some colorful brake calipers and some red on black stitched seats.  It suits their purposes.  They get to tell their high brow friends about how they added the optional extras and then maybe follow up by reciting some horsepower statistics that they read off the first page of the owner’s manual.  That’s not me.  I chose the former.  Give me the sports car that was built from the ground up to deliver the ultimate driving experience.      

My list of previously driven vehicles contained only fairly mundane cars prior to last summer.  A Ford Expedition and a Saturn sedan pale in comparison to a German engineered roadster, so you can understand my excitement when my uncle informed us of his plan to leave his BMW Z3 with my family when he came to visit us.  He did not have a place to put it over the winter and our garage had ample space for that lean roadster.  He arrived in August.  I squinted as the sun reflected of the metallic forest green paint, and a car bearing that unmistakable kidney bean grill rolled up the driveway and came to halt.  It sat low to the ground with its wide tires spread far apart.   The chrome wheels hid under dirt, grime, and brake dust collected over its long journey from Hailey, Idaho. 

After he brought his bags in and we talked for awhile, he decided it was time to teach me to drive it.  The car sat in the driveway with a powerful silence like a lion, crouched among the tall grass, eyeing its prey.  I opened the passenger door, slid the seat all the way back, and slotted my 6’5” frame into the passenger seat.  Beige leather surrounded me felt familiar and comforting like an old baseball glove.  Grey clouds overhead signaled rain and meant our drive would be done with the top up.  My uncle twisted his wrist and four cylinders sprang to life.  At low r.p.m.s they gave out a pleasant murmur.  That gentle noise indicated the pedigree of the machine under my uncle’s control.  We set off down the road as he explained the mechanics of a transmission and cycled through the gears, mesmerizing me as we drove on. 

I got my chance soon after.  I assumed my position at the driver’s seat.  The clutch and gear stick felt so foreign but also so empowering.  In this car, it was clear.  The driver was given unparalleled control.  Free from the restrictions of an automatic, no longer did I rely on the car to adjust the delivery of the power.  I found myself in the realm of manuals.  I failed on my first attempt to get rolling.  My subsequent attempts got better and better.  Jerky starts melted away into smooth transitions as the lovely four cylinder purred and carried us from stop sign to stop sign.  It did so almost effortlessly. 

The car really flexed its muscles on the highway.  At speed, the driving experience experienced exponential amplification.  A tentative foot found the clutch and buried it as a sweaty palm ripped the stick into third.  The exchange of power below vibrated through body and soul and begged for more gas.  The right foot found the gas and sunk it into the floor.  Orange dials gave me a standing ovation, rising in response.  My four cylinder choir sang the praises of the driving experience.  At that point, appropriate words eluded me.  The mechanical magic of the car simply took my breath away as if it knew this beautiful experience was not one that words could do justice.  A smile spread across my uncle’s typically stoic face.  The car felt alive.  Like a boxer, it bobbed and weaved through the curves, throwing punches only when I asked it to.  They experience was so joyous that it nearly elicited laughter.  When we returned home and my grin was ear to ear.  I simply couldn’t help it. 

Learning to drive that car was more than just the act of operating.  It held a deeper meaning.  The car was not mine.  I had the privilege of using it for a few precious months before it had to be returned, but even when I no longer had the pleasure of driving it, the smile would remain.  At this time in my life I’m doing meaningful school work and preparing for college.  I got my first job, and my actions now are critical to laying the ground work for my future life.  That little green car was a free appetizer.  It made me hungry and now it’s my turn to make my own main course.  Fortunately, I have been gifted the tools to do it, but that does not mean it will come easily.  It’s within grasp, and that’s all I need to know.