There's a Pot of Gold Just Over the Hood Scoop
My jaw and molars hurt, my neck and upper back was stiff, and the culprit grin was still on my face as I arrived at work. It was an unsettling grin, a mix of exhilaration and tension. I had just completed my first trip familiar on the slingshot. The kind of ride that feels as if at any moment you could find yourself lurched into the air on wings or burrowing into the ground in front of you. The vehicle knows my subconscious desires before my brain can even process the possibility of that much speed, that much sound. There is an uneasy sense that you are no longer in control. There is too much machine. It was similar to the hermetic adventures on calaveras rd. when the VFR first became an extension of my own body, or on Highway 58, the lost highway, where space and time became objects of another world. This, this was a slingshot, pure potential energy. And whereas those days were spent in search of the perfect pavement, this was a mere commute.