For the first nine years of my driving carer, I never got a traffic ticket in my home state.
And then I moved to Virginia.
But this week brought a different sentiment to the uninspiring rental car experience. This week, I wasn’t renting a car from a distant airport. This week, I was driving four wheels’ worth of milquetoast on roads I drive everyday.
So, I had outrun my fears without rear view mirrors. I had hung my number on destiny, and it had stuck.
So, I don’t care what you drive. You can compensate with size or speed, sum or sculpted lines. But if it’s not a stick shift, you’re not driving.
It was the simplicity of silver with the showbiz of metallic, the rumble of a stampede with the slipperiness of satin sheets. It was a she, and she was a pending mistress.
It was created from a vacuum of holistic sales with people like me in mind.
I prefer to get more than I paid for from my vehicle—to get more from my journey than the miles.
For now, I’ll keep finding the packs on interstates and beltways, where mob rule protects our 80-85-90-do-I-hear-95 fixes.
Copyright © 2013 Ryan George
