We drove hard up the hill through 12 and flopped left into turn 11. At the crest, we pinned the gas for the exit of the turn and kept it at the redline 3-4-5 all the way down the flying stretch of the straightaway, down down hill. Our brake marker was flew toward us in the corner of our vision. We had to get slow fast and then back on the gas for the ten-nine-eight series. Steady throttle keeps things balanced and predictable.
As we approached the end of the straight, we clamped on the brakes 5-4-3 and rode out the snaking rear wheel. Then it lifted violently skyward. We thought there’s this feeling like there’s an aura of us, a dense collection of energy in the same general shape as our corporeal selves, but loosely attached, perhaps moving in a slight delay to movements we make, but always at our back and whispering in our ears faster faster so that we might push our physical selves so fast that this little wisp of us, this other energy, can finally disengage, be left behind, released from our body to twirl like newspaper in our draft and away to wherever things like that choose to go.
Life after all isn’t a linear procession through which anything is ever truly accomplished or even totally finished. We just make incremental progress, wrangling our ideas of ourselves toward an idea of Who We’d Like to Be, using sheer willpower to keep our spirits intact, taking whatever excruciating steps we can to get to the next place without looking too hard at how our ideals can’t be held in our hands, or how we’re constantly making compromises as to the amount of slippage we’re willing to accept. But we try, and goddamnit no one will tell us we didn’t. And at the end of the game we plan to say “I did what I could, and I held the fuck on.”
And then the rear tire found the ground and hooked up, so we tilted hard left into ten, revved smooth through the nine-eight chicane, and blasted down the straight toward seven.