RPM overload

I got to test-drive a Porsche last Saturday. It changed me. I understand things now that I didn’t before.

I like to drive fast. I like driving 1995 Honda Accord on I-65 fast, which has all the thrill of Japanese speed trains arriving at their destination on time and efficiently. Which is to say it thrills someone neurotic like me who adores efficiency, but doesn’t inspire aspirants to convert to the church of velocity worship.

Driving around my neighborhood, I learned that the Porsche is a cheetah and the Accord is a house cat. I had no idea. The guy with me kept putting his hand softly over mine on the gear-shift knob, “You’re shifting too soon.” Over and over, saying gently, “You’re shifting too soon; you’re not feeling it.”

I turned left onto the north side of the Square, “OK, there’s no stop signs here. Don’t shift until I tell you to.” I got uncomfortable and twitched the gear. “You’re still shifting too soon,” a hand on mine again to get me to stay still.

“This car, you don’t understand yet, you don’t drive it like a normal car. It can do things.”

I listened patiently at the red light because I could tell how eagerly he wanted to communicate this experience to me. I tried hard to hear what he was telling me.

“OK, when the light changes, really push it. Really push it. Don’t shift until I tell you to and you’ll feel it.”

Green light, first gear and turn left. Two blocks on the straightway, no traffic ahead of me, no signals, no disruptions. I shot out at 50 mph in second gear. My jaw dropped, my shoulders relaxed, my pupils dilated, my stomach lifted into my heart and my heart lifted into my throat.

“You still had room to push it harder,” he said quietly.

I barely croaked, “I think I’m finished.”

I understand many things now. I understand why celebrities and business tycoons become race car drivers. I understand “0-60.” I understand James Dean.

I am not a thrill junky, but I touched the edge of real thrill for just a moment, and it was enough for me to see and to understand. Pushing your life, your boundaries to get every rush you can, racing adrenaline to the peak of performance before chemical breakdown. I see that appeal. I understand that need to get the next big fix from the next base jump or the next drag race.

Understanding has changed me. It has given me sympathy where before I felt derision at giving in to baser instincts. Instincts feel good. Instincts feel right. Especially at 50 mph in second gear.