Free Walt by Ian Stoba Page A

chance to use any gear higher than second.
    I knew I would have an opportunity soon, though. I paid almost no attention to the part of the drive we were on, so intently was I focusing on the part to come.
    After the drive goes down Army Street, it takes a jog through the not-really-all-that-scenic Bayview district. From there it goes onto Highway 280. This is the part I was anticipating. This freeway has been closed since the earthquake. Thoughtfully, a two mile section of it has remained open almost exclusively for the purpose of the 49 Mile Drive. This stretch of road is utterly barren and devoid of traffic at any hour of the day or night. Of all the places to be in a Ferrari in San Francisco, this was undoubtedly the best.
    When we finally came to the on-ramp I could barely contain myself. I briefly explained to Walt what was going to happen: we were going to go very, very fast. The speedometer went up to 160. I wondered how fast the car would actually be able to go.
    The light changed and I jammed on the accelerator.
    I have always been disappointed by airplanes. Somehow distance takes all the reality out of speed. Yes, an airplane may be cruising at 400 mph, but at 40,000 feet it seems to be just barely crawling along. The scenery inches by agonizingly slowly. Even at takeoff and landing the sensations of speed and power are minimized.
    I was not disappointed by the Ferrari. The acceleration pinned my body against the seat, my head forced into the cradle of the headrest. I imagined, or think I imagined, little waves in the flesh of my cheeks. I had to grip the ball of the shifter tight in my right hand and not let go. I was sure that if I did my arm would be flung to my side and I would never be able to force it out against the force.
    At the one mile mark we were doing 118 mph and I still had the car in fourth gear. I shifted and we leapt forward. At one and one half miles, we had attained 156 mph and I was afraid to go any faster. I also remembered that in half a mile we would have to deal with a swerve, a stoplight, train tracks, and a city street. I decided to start slowing down now.
    After we had negotiated the stoplight, I pulled the car over, killed the engine, and got out. I had started trembling when I first brought the car back down under 100 mph. By now my shaking would best be described as convulsions. I lay on my back in a patch of dirt, unable to keep from thrashing on the ground. I felt sharp rocks poking me in the back, weeds and stickers getting into my socks. Only after several minutes of hyperventilation was I able to stop shaking. Finally I was able to get back on my feet.
    I decided we needed a temporary break from the Drive. I pulled around the corner to a donut shop that I knew would be open. It always was. It took about half an hour of drinking cups of strong black coffee and eating jelly-filleds before I felt ready to get back in the car.
    Walt had seemed remarkably unperturbed throughout this entire encounter, but he did seem to enjoy the donuts. I was so caught up in myself that I realized that a jelly donut was yet another in a long string of firsts for him.
    By the time we had gotten back to where we had started on the Drive, for it runs in a loop, the sky was on the indeterminate edge between dusk and full dark. I turned off California, went down a block, then turned left onto Sacramento. This was the same hill we had rolled backwards down only a few hours before. In some ways I was hesitant to give the car back, it had been lots of fun to drive. But then I imagined trying to park a Ferrari in my neighborhood. That would simply not do. There are some types of insults of being that are too much for people to excuse. A car like that parked outside my building would be an affront to everyone who lived there. The urge to kick out a window or scratch the paint or stab a tire would be too great.
    Besides, keeping the car would violate my tacit agreement with Jose, and would probably get me in a lot