We have an uneasy realtionship the orange car and I.
I think I'm a badass, she KNOWS she's a badass. Sometimes we drive with no troubles, no confrontations. Others, like two Saturdays ago, she tries to kill me.
It was warm for January and beautiful outside. The man warms up the car and runs over to his parents for a few minutes. I finish up my work just as he gets back.
"Can I have the keys? I need to run to the grocery store?
"Sure just be careful."
So I drive, windows down, orange car at my beck and call. She's still sluggish, which will call for an engine rebuild in the near future. I drive through town, turn and drive the paved road down to the next mile.
Cherry Pie blaring, window rolled down, I look at the radio for an instant and the back tires slip off onto the gravel shoulder.
Now before this was happening, I was thinking about the fact that we have full coverage on the orange car. Full coverage for a 1970 Dodge Charger. Wondering what it would be like if the car rolled. Wondering how that whole replacement process would work for a classic car. Wondering how I would explain that to Marc, to Dad.
The car is rear wheel drive and it doesn't take very much to turn it. I WAY overcorrect and start to fishtail. Taking my foot off the gas pedal isn't slowing it down any and I'm starting to swerve all over the road. I'm getting closer to the highway and my only option is to brake and hope I don't roll. (In my mind I'm seeing the car rolling across the adjacent fields sideways, end over end, metal crunching, glass everywhere). The car slides across the pavement doing a full 180.
My foot is shaking so hard I can barely press the gas pedal to get it started again. I'm barely breathing. I drive off like I did the entire thing on purpose.
I am not a badass.