“How far are you going to take me?” my girlfriend asks, brushing her blond hair to the side as the wind whips it back. I give no answer, but turn my eyes back to the road, its asphalt arteries flowing to the vanishing point of my vision. I’m not sure where I’m going, or why. An overpowering wanderlust consumed me, and I found myself on the highway, with no consideration to her. The formations of the canyon rise from the horizon, their storied cliff faces a tepid rust colored blur in my the periphery of my vision. Dry heat and sunlight trace the curves of my Enzo as I weave in and out of the slipstreams of the vehicles ahead, pushing the meter past 250 km/h. An ‘89 recording of “Who Are You?” blares out of the stereo, the Enzo’s engine humming along.
I spot another Ferrari down the road, an old rival. Catching his slipstream I match his pace and give him a sly wink over my girlfriend’s shoulder, then shift down, lean in the Enzo and hear the tires squeal as I cruise sideways through the hairpin curves. We match each other through the turn; I pull up close enough to catch his expression, then give him a smirk and a salute as I right the wheels, shift up and leave him behind. My girlfriend pumps her fist in delight. It’s a hollow gesture, a move that meant more in my early days, back when I was first taking my dad’s sunlight yellow Dino 246 GTS for joyrides at the streetraces to earn my own ride and impress the like of Clarissa and Jennifer. Now here I am, girl at my side, driving cross country.
As we approach the next checkpoint I can feel dread creeping upon me, as if a countdown were nearing its final moments. A brisk afternoon chill cuts through, washing away the feeling. The horizon gives way to snow saturated mountain paths. I pull my jacket tight as I overtake the next curve, my girlfriend leaning into my shoulder.
Minutes, or maybe hours later, we begin to approach the outer limits of the space station launch pad, another checkpoint down the bend. As the road straightens out a convoy of trucks emerges just from the edges of my sight. The Enzo chokes as I release the gas and drop the brake, sending the car into a spiralling course between the trucks and right towards the concrete barriers of the highway.
I jerk the wheel away, but not far enough to keep us from colliding with the wall, upheaving the vehicle and torpedoing us through the air. The car lands upright with a sputtering of the engine, the anthemic “Who Are You?” still blaring. “Are you going to give up?” my girlfriend shouts at me as I shift the gears back to first in an attempt to crawl towards the next point. Night has come down on us and the distant ambiance of the city points skyward to a star-filled sky, streaked with meteors. I can feel what I’ve been trying to outrun creep upon me and the Enzo stutters forward.
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