He tossed the key at you which you managed to snatch from the air like a frog grabbing a fly. It was small and light, just like the car you were about to drive. What a nice touch it would be if the engineers had gone so far in their thinking to “add lightness” to everything – including the keys to the car itself.
The car was orange.
He had warned you about getting in and out of the car, something he affectionately referred to as “The Lotus Dance.” It was one you’d done before. Rather than sit with any kind of grace you simply dropped into the seat and hoped your ass landed where you intended. A leap of faith.
Once situated, the seats were rather comfortable. As sparse as the cabin was you didn’t have any trouble finding things where they should be. The only thing you were interested in was the start button. It did not disappoint.
You were surprised by the roar the engine made. It wasn’t the weedy sound you anticipated from the same Japanese four cylinder you’d find in your administrative assistant’s car, but something else. It sounded like a race car.
You eased the car out of the driveway relying on faith as much as the mirrors. Rearward visibility was not a major concern when designing this car. Who needs to see what’s behind them in a race car anyway? Flat out, all the time – that is how this car was meant to be driven.
You warmed the car up to operating temperature and began to mesh with the machine. It was loud – aurally and visually. The giant front wings let you know where your tires were. Your tires transmitted every surface of the road not only through the unassisted steering but also through your ass and up your spine. Such is the ideal way to process feedback and supplement your eyes – all of the sensations processing in your brain.
You drove the car, you enjoyed it, but you did not push it. An unfamiliar car on unfamiliar roads – now wasn’t the time to explore the limits. In reality, the limits aren’t accessible on a public streets.
As you returned the car to its home, you began to notice that people stared. People pointed, people waved. Its all part of driving an exotic car. It wasn’t something you cared for much but you humored the masses with smiles, waves, little blips of the throttle. That’s the code that any exotic driver abides by.
You opened the door, put your ass on the edge of the seat, your left hand on the roof, and extricated yourself from the cocoon of a seat. Tossing the keys back to him you began to process the experience. This was a race car that you could drive on the street. Some people might complain it was too raw, but to you it was just right.
autophiliac 