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Jack, Sandy and the racecar

January 29, 2013

Drive,” I said, and with both hands on the wheel at ten and two, I asked Sandy “are you ready?” Before she could answer, I pressed my foot down on the pedal. The tires spun, smoking for a second on the slick cement floor. I smelled the hint of burning rubber as we laid our first 10-foot strip.
We were off!
“Hold on Sandy,” I warned as we slowed quickly to negotiate the first turn.
“Please be careful,” Sandy pleaded as we tore through it. The thick rear of the car fishtailing, tires screeching, turn by turn we made it to the ground level. We tested the acceleration racing full throttle the entire length of the floor. I hit the brakes hard skidding right through the exit booth. The attendant raised the traffic arm just in time.
Ceramic Brake Pads built to withstand enormous heat allowed the car to stop faster than it accelerated 60 to zero in a mere 2.3 seconds…on this stop I could’ve used another tenth second for Sandy’s sake.
“Oh my God Jack you almost hit the bar, you’re the last guy on earth that should own a car that goes this fast.”
“Oh Honey, I knew we weren’t gonna hit the bar. This car was made for this type of handling.”
I really did know it as fact, in practice this morning, me and the kid worked it out. I slipped him a twenty.
“You think that was fast you haven’t seen nothing yet!”
“No I really have,” Sandy grabbed tight to the armrests.
Looking only to my left I hit the gas and we flew out into the street.
“Jack are you sure…?”
I answered by putting the pedal to the floor, “We’ll just take her around the block.”
We could feel only mild vibration as we tested the claim of zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds. We were momentarily pinned back in our seats.
“Wow!” I said. Driving as fast as I could barely stopping at one corner before speeding up to the next, each time announcing to Sandy how fast we’d gotten up to.
“She just kept saying “You’re gonna get us killed.”
“The last run was our best, Sandy sixty-eight!” I told her proud of myself. When we got back to our starting point we turned into the garage. I stopped briefly, thanked the attendant and grabbed a ticket.
Sandy said, “Pleeease Jack can we just take it easy now?”
The cockpit was relatively quiet, even with all the commotion we created. Tires screeching, rear end fishtailing, burning rubber all the way to the third level.
On the way up, I told Sandy, “It sounds worse than it is!”
“Off!” One final command and the powerful machine instantly fell into motionless repose.
“Jack! Driving with you feels like sitting in a rocket sled perched on a banana peel. I feel like I just lifted off in the space shuttle, you’re impossible! Really Jack, you try sitting in the death seat with someone driving like that! I nearly put my foot through the floor trying to stop the car myself.”
Sandy threatened with a look like she’d never get in my car again. This time I think she meant it.
“We have to take the elevator this skirt is too tight for me to climb stairs.” I was laughing exhilarated as we hurried towards the exit. Sandy was trying her best to keep up, one hand on my shoulder the other on my arm for balance. I pushed the button and showed her my watch, “See we made it.”
“Jack we’ve only made it to the elevator,” she said slightly exaggerating her out of breath. She was shaking a bit. I grabbed her by the shoulders and looked down deep into her eyes,
“Don’t worry I sent everyone a text before we left to hold off for 20 minutes, I just wanted to take you for a ride and have some fun. Wasn’t that an awesome adrenaline rush?” http://www.gregsandora.com

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