Calling

Tranquility. Anxiety. Power. Fear. Adrenaline. Trepidation. Execution. Precision. Timing. Adaptation. Control.

Speed.

I craved it. I needed it. I lusted after it.

To nail the ideal apex, to navigate the turn with pure grace. Never having true traction but always being in perfect control.

I raced for the feeling. Nothing in my life gave me the same empowerment. The same stabs of terror and celestial pleasure coalescing in sinful, orgasmic harmony. Tearing through obstinate roads wide enough only for one car. Trees and obstacles perilously close, taunting with every pass. The sibilant whine of the exhaust echoing the engines seething, fiery rage. Imagining the horrors that awaited me if I suffered a lapse in judgement, one languid reaction and bone, flesh and blood would mix with carbon fiber, aluminum and titanium. Here one second and lost in the next pernicious moment to the dangers that lurk unknown around every bend. A zen unlike any other.

Screaming crowds, outpouring of adoration and love. The quintessence of euphoria. The unwritten kinship I share with spectators. Whenever trouble strikes they come running to get me back on the trail. Without them I could be a failure and without me they wander like lost sheep. One day they would mourn the loss of me and the world weep. I lived for the rush. The thrill of weightlessness. The intoxication of adrenaline no narcotic could hope to mimic.

When we were apart I was empty. Going through daily rituals comatose. There was no happiness, no feeling, aimless. My chariot was an extension of my being. We were one, different, the same. When it hurt, I hurt because it was always my fault. I was the aggressor, the abuser and it took it all with no complaint. My sponsors and crew questioned my attitude out of the car. Was I alright? Was something wrong in my life? When we were together, flirting with death at every opportunity I was never questioned. In my element I was a God.

They say the young believe themselves to be invincible and are naive for it. What would I be considered at my age? Stupid? Reckless? Even, insane?

No.

One day I will pass on to whatever life, if any, exists beyond this. Quietly is not how I will end. Some wish to pass on in their own bed, surrounded by loved ones. There are those that fear death. They avoid it at all costs and inevitably only call it quicker. To the Samurai their sword contains the soul. If the sword is killed so too  is the warrior.

Cliffs pass in a blur, the steering wheel quakes, my heart races, white knuckles under leather, sweat soaking the padding in my helmet. Voices talk in my head, telling me which direction and how hard to turn. Calling obstacles and debris. The voice is always there, talking as if it were my own. Rocks hit the wheel wells with deafening volume. Metal screeches against metal as the rear end contacts the guard rail. My breath catches in my throat. The voices are suddenly gone. The engine howls fighting for control. The road opens, wheels catch solid ground and the cliff is already a distant memory. The voice returns, shuddering, 'Oh, god.' Full power down the straight, vibrations shivering through to my core. Together we conquer. Together we will remain.

It is my calling. My reason to be.

~Let me know what you, the reader, thinks! I greatly appreciate feedback.~