Читать книгу Damaged Hearts - Jan St. Marcus - Страница 13

Okay, I know how snobbish this is probably going to sound, but the thing about having a truly high-performance car is all about how it makes you feel when you’re driving it. I know that most people buy expensive cars for status, to show off or because they think it makes you look cool. I’m not one of those people. I bought my GT3 RS because I love to drive, and I do it really well. And I guess somebody a lot smarter than me might find some correlations with the fact that I am a mathematician and say something about the precision of the car and the way my mind works are compatible or some other psycho-babble. I say it’s all bullshit. I love the way the car feels. I love the precision of the steering and the kerthunk when the gears shift in a micro-second and how responsive the throttle pedal is. I mean, truth be told, I’m a total geek for this car. It’s not the only reason to call me a geek, but if this makes me a geek, I’ll take it.

Instead of going right home, I head north on the Pacific Coast Highway and find little spots to press the throttle and accelerate to eighty or ninety miles per hour and then slow down again. It’s a rush that always puts a smile on my face. And, knock on wood, opening it up for short bursts will help me keep my driving record clean—I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket—ever. I feel so lucky when I get in a mood like this and take a drive like this. The concentration it takes to wrangle a beast like mine keeps my mind occupied, and other things zip by like the scenery. All that’s left is the smiling. And while I’ve been told that I don’t smile much, I absolutely love to smile. Like I’m doing right now. And now that I’ve adjusted my mood sufficiently, I have a houseguest to see to, so I turn up one of the canyons just west of Santa Monica and start the drive home. My smile remains intact throughout.