MPH

By Alex Lee

Photos by Hinton Bolinger

A lonely cloud hung in the brisk autumn air. An idling engine hummed perched on top of a hill, ready to pounce, its muscles tense. School had let out long ago, but the roads had just opened up. A grey soulless sedan rolled along right at the speed limit, as so proclaimed by an electric sign. It read “35” in big, loud yellow letters. A thick and heavy bass line filled the cabin. As my thumb rolled down a dial on the steering wheel, the sound of wind and birds triumphed over the dubstep that was so popular in that time. The smell of rotting leaves filled my nose with one of my favorite smells.

I sat here waiting for an opportunity, an open stretch of road. It had been a minute or two since the sad little appliance, which some call a car, had left my view. Time to go.

My foot planted the gas pedal in to the floor. The engine screamed, and the spooling turbo whistled as it built boost. Second gear came, and fire escaped from the exhaust.

I was not focused on what was in the cabin, but on the little electric sign in front of me. As I drew near, it popped into life, blinking out its electric words. It screamed “65!” In third gear, there was no fire this time as the turbo spooled harder.

At 75, the sign now complained. Many saw it as a warning. I saw it as score board. In 4th gear, the sign now simply blinked out in error. I screamed a rebel yell as I began to drop down the hill, foot still hard down. The bridge at the bottom came into view. I screamed over it in the low triple digits.

This was not my first encounter with speed, a petroleum-based drug, driven by the internal combustion engine. It was and still is an addiction of mine. It began only a few short months after getting my license and has only grown since. My one thing left from the divorce was the car my father had originally got my mom, a sky blue 2006 Audi A4. He was a successful doctor, and such expenses were of no concern to him. It should have been such; this car was far too much for a teenager. In my testosterone-filled adolescence, it was the music of a songbird at idle and the call of the sirens at wide open throttle.

On another, colder day, my hands wrapped around the same familiar key fob. One twist of my hand and the engine sparked to life. On cold days, the air is thicker, so the heart and lungs of my car didn’t have to work as hard to harvest the oxygen from the atmosphere. To me, this meant one thing. Faster.

As long as I was in sight of home I tried my best to be casual, but the second I was out of view, the tachometer reached the red line. This town had police, but not enough during the time that I was roaming the streets. I sped around the corner, back end kicking out. My tires squealed like a stuck pig. It is only with time that we can realize how stupid all teenagers truly are. The corner I flamboyantly ripped around was connected to City Hall.

As I began to realign the back and front, I saw the frame of a man one could truly call rotund.

When you drive like I did, you develop a sixth sense, a radar of sorts--a radar that detects pearl clutchers, concerned citizens, and egotistical assholes alike. As I stared down this man, my alarm was going off like never before. The hand of the hippo of a man quickly darted to his waist and back up, now clutching a small black box. It was only now that I saw the glimpse of a utility belt straight out of a Batman comic.

”Ah shit,” were the first words I had spoken that day. There’s a common saying among “concerned citizens” often memorized and rattled off like hymns at a Catholic church.

“You can’t outrun a radio!” They sing this in such clever confidence, not realizing that the aging Crown Victorias of America’s police force most certainly can be outrun. A radio wave can’t stop and arrest you, and this historically large cop wouldn’t either.

My foot never left the floor as I passed the cop chattering into his radio. My mind immediately went to find the shortest route to the next county over. I knew my unwashed license plate would be “conveniently” unreadable. As I approached a hill in the historic district, I saw certain doom, a parked Crown Victoria. It had no lights on, and its owner was facing the wrong way, but she was talking into her radio--about me, no doubt. As I racked my mind for a solution, knowing I only had a few seconds till she turned around, the answer was given to me. A chrome eighteen-wheeler pulled out from a side road. For the first time, my foot found the brakes. I slowed to get behind him and use his trailer to block myself from view. From between the gap ground and the bottom of the trailer, I watched as Lady Justice took off in a direction opposite of mine. I breathed a sigh of relief as I cruised across the border in to the next county, saved by bureaucracy. I reached out to the radio and brought it to truly deafening levels, a way to relieve stress. I slowly made my way to a small park and camped out there for the rest of the day.

I would like to say that as I grew, I slowed down. I learned my lesson that day and took a vow to never go over the speed limit again. But momma told me never to lie. Instead, I am now more careful choosing a where and when. I’ve now learned to talk my way out of trouble instead of running from it. Have I grown? Yes, but in my own petroleum-based way.

Alex Lee is a Senior Digital Storytelling Major from Roswell, GA. His favorite memory in the department is creating a documentary for his TV and Film Studies course. After he graduates, he wants to work for Camp Glisson.