After passing a lazy Malibu, a short stretch of interstate opens up. A teasing token from the Gods of Gridlock and Crowded Highways.
I switch open the active exhaust. The beast takes the cue and growls dauntingly. A deep monstrous rumble, she’s impatient. It’s been too slow for too long. For her. For me.
My skin crawls with trepid elation, like the high-octane snake running through her veins.
At 70 MPH, I drop into third gear, increasing RPM to match her speed.
In appreciation of anticipation, I hesitate before punching it; a moment to relish the roar and reverberations of 526 horses snarling menacingly and ready to bust all-ass loose.
It’s game on.
Like a cat on the prowl, she hunkers down and blasts off with an explosive roar—all teeth and claws.
The creature’s alive with punishing Gs as she forces me firmly against the seat. My upper lip curls into a devious grin, 100 MPH and accelerating like the proverbial bat.
Vision narrows with a predator’s instinct.
Heart pounding to the pulse of her eight pistons spinning a flat-plane crank, and I’m giddy as all fucking hell.
A daring glance at the speedometer shows 120 MPH and climbing, swiftly.
8,250 RPM sees a quick stab into fourth gear.
Up ahead, the span closes rapidly.
But she’s hungry: 130, 135, 140 MPH (225 KPH), twice the legal speed limit, and still the rate of acceleration seems yet to diminish.
But, just that quick, in less time than it takes to read this post, she’s devoured the road. It’s over. I have to back her off.
Until another day.
Another day and maybe the Gods will shower their gratuity once more—but with a slightly longer stretch of the open road, and like this day, one without the highway patrol.
One can only pray.