admin
22 December 2023
At 31, I got my first speeding ticket. My disappointment wasn't in receiving the ticket, but in the knowledge that I could no longer be as careless behind the wheel; that I was no longer impervious to the law's scrutiny if I could allow myself to be caught. I not only thoroughly enjoy speeding, but in a weird way it's also a constant reminder of my mother and how she taught me to drive. She handed down the family lead foot and schooled me in the fine art of evading capture if I was driving too fast. Speeding was a bond between us.
My mother had quite an unusual relationship with automobiles. As a young adult, she'd drag race for money on the lakefront in Mandeville, Louisiana. She was a master of the automobile; whether she was racing or rebuilding an engine, the automobile was at her mercy. Her drag racing career came to an end when she and her husband at the time nearly died in a car accident. She went into a spin, he was thrown out, she grabbed him to pull him back in and caught a mailbox in the ribs. Oddly enough she wasn't racing at the time, but her near death experience was enough to frighten her away from her hobby.
Over the years my mother found her life caught in a downward spiral. Her driving reflected that whenever possible. She unwittingly almost fed us to all 18 wheels of a semi and slapped me when I screamed. She once passed out at the wheel, sending the car careening into the trees. When she came to just in time to veer back toward the road, she told me it was my fault for not grabbing the wheel when she went limp. When I was old enough to own my own car, she'd smack into parked cars with it and flee the scene. She once told me she'd knocked the bumper off a parked car and just left since she was fairly certain nobody saw her.
Three years ago, she and her relationship with automobiles reached the bottom of her spiral. She'd gone with my stepfather and my little sister to the store to buy a birthday cake. She called me from a pay phone so I could wish my sister a happy birthday; I was out. On the way home my stepfather found disciplining my sister more important than watching the road. He sent the car spinning into the woods. A tree came through the passenger side door, crushing my mother to death. Her ride had truly ended.
As I watched the officer walk off, I clutched the evidence of my defeat in a tight fist and thought of my mother. Maybe I felt like I'd disappointed her somehow. Chances are I'd just never realized how something as silly as speeding had become such a fond memory of her. Either way, my race to get nowhere in particular had ended less tragically, and for that I suppose I should be thankful.
My mother had quite an unusual relationship with automobiles. As a young adult, she'd drag race for money on the lakefront in Mandeville, Louisiana. She was a master of the automobile; whether she was racing or rebuilding an engine, the automobile was at her mercy. Her drag racing career came to an end when she and her husband at the time nearly died in a car accident. She went into a spin, he was thrown out, she grabbed him to pull him back in and caught a mailbox in the ribs. Oddly enough she wasn't racing at the time, but her near death experience was enough to frighten her away from her hobby.
Over the years my mother found her life caught in a downward spiral. Her driving reflected that whenever possible. She unwittingly almost fed us to all 18 wheels of a semi and slapped me when I screamed. She once passed out at the wheel, sending the car careening into the trees. When she came to just in time to veer back toward the road, she told me it was my fault for not grabbing the wheel when she went limp. When I was old enough to own my own car, she'd smack into parked cars with it and flee the scene. She once told me she'd knocked the bumper off a parked car and just left since she was fairly certain nobody saw her.
Three years ago, she and her relationship with automobiles reached the bottom of her spiral. She'd gone with my stepfather and my little sister to the store to buy a birthday cake. She called me from a pay phone so I could wish my sister a happy birthday; I was out. On the way home my stepfather found disciplining my sister more important than watching the road. He sent the car spinning into the woods. A tree came through the passenger side door, crushing my mother to death. Her ride had truly ended.
As I watched the officer walk off, I clutched the evidence of my defeat in a tight fist and thought of my mother. Maybe I felt like I'd disappointed her somehow. Chances are I'd just never realized how something as silly as speeding had become such a fond memory of her. Either way, my race to get nowhere in particular had ended less tragically, and for that I suppose I should be thankful.
artid
44
Old Image
4_6_speeding.swf
issue
vol 4 - issue 06 (feb 2002)
section
pen_think