Lead Foot

A creative non fiction story about the best friend I ever had.

***

I loathe driving slow.

I can assure you no more horrid routine inconvenience exists than being stuck behind an individual who chooses to go forty, or even forty-five, miles per hour on a road where the posted speed limit is fifty.

Probably because struggling with malignant tardiness has been the cornerstone of my entire existence. Due to this, few who know me well bat an eye when I describe the aforementioned speed limits as being nothing more than "speed suggestions."

In the early hours of every weekday an infamous battle transpires between Father Time and I, amongst the dreary fog and in the dim light of the yet-to-be risen sun. You can, without fail, find me in the city streets running a marathon I rarely win, as I test the limits of my beloved onyx coupe to make each morning's commute the new quickest ever.

Only recently, have I become aware of a change in me. I've discovered myself becoming something grotesque, a thing I never thought I'd be: a dirty, rotten lethargic driver. A "Sunday driver."

Of course I haven't fully crossed over, yet. Largely, I'm the same old me.

So if I had to guess, I'd say I'll be just fine. I will doubtless remain, for the most part, uncorrupted by the fresh and gradual development of this nasty habit of decelerating my automobile. In fact, I can honestly admit that I am certain my days of rebellion against traffic laws aren't finished. And I have good evidence to suggest that this is true.

I have noticed I only clock my speedometer going in the wrong direction between stoplights in very specific circumstances.

Invariably, it happens on the rare occasions when she is next to me, sitting in the passenger seat.

The conversation and just a few glimpses of the soft features of her face, as the yellow glow of sodium vapor street lamps streak by, cause my ordinarily heavy foot to lay off the gas.

I can't help but pray for red lights.

When I am with her I become conscious of a different route I can take in my contest with the moments that pass us by.

When I am with her I alter my strategy; I combat time in a different way.

When I am with her I try to take it slow.

***

Whatever road she’s on now, whoever’s in the driver’s seat, however she felt about me, if I could live a thousand lives, I would always spend those 8 years with her, savoring every turn.