Left of center on a country road, autumn in Indiana had come. The marvelous colors: red, orange, and yellow speckled the farm land at harvest time. A hawk on a telephone wire watched over the straight and narrow road. Cumulus clouds hung on a pure blue sky. The car was a Chevy Camaro Rally Sport with a 350 V8 motor that ran like a band of stallions. The speed limit was 45 mph, and I was doing at least 60. My tires fiercely gripped the pavement. Do you remember what it feels like to be young and alive?
I raced towards Fairmount, IN. to the annual James Dean Festival and car show. It was all backroads from Anderson to Fairmount. I flew past farms, corn fields, and dilapidated barns. James Dean knew these roads. He raced his motorcycle past these same farms. The only difference was then the barns were new. I drove like I was running a race, and found myself lost in the tranquility of sunshine and speed. I fell into a opiate like daydream. However, my only intoxicant was youth. As I approached 70mph, I looked in the rearview mirror at the dust and gravel that flew from the back of my car, and though, I was distracted for only a moment, I did not notice an oncoming truck. It had turned discretely from a side road and now straddled the center line. The Chevy raced faster and faster. A head-on collision was eminent. Then déjà vu, I had lived this before. This time would fate be on my side? At the last moment, I saw the oncoming truck and maneuvered the Chevy off the road.
“Stupid drunk.” I uttered under me breath.
A solemn moment passed. Then I gathered myself, and got my car back on course to Fairmount. The Chevy hit 70 mph again. I remembered Dean and that fatal crash in 1955. The immortal ones always die young, I thought. The speedometer hit 75, then 80, and the car hugged the cracked and crumbling asphalt. Filled with adrenaline I shouted.
“I am going to live forever!”
Written by: Brett Wiley