Iron

It's a beautiful July day, around 10:30 in the morning or so. I'm on my side in bed, staring out the window. After a few moments I get up, dress, and walk out the front door, pausing under the shade of a tree. The sky is faded blue, the sun is obscured by the leaves, blazing through in bright, mottled little patches on the lawn. A breeze is blowing.
In my pocket are three keys, only one of which really matters. I take a few steps out the door and walk up the stairs, keeping my eye on her the entire time. I left the t-tops down the other night, the only thing I have to do is get in, sit down, turn the key, and drive.
An old, familiar demon stirs deep in my chest, hot with anticipation. A sublime, fiendish little smirk reaches the corners of my mouth. I take the key out, my hands shaking a little.
Left foot pressing down on the clutch, my right hand slips the key into the ignition.
A quick twist of my wrist, and I'm greeted with a soothing, guttural roar. Something primal is flowing through my veins. The CD begins to play. I turn up the volume and slide the shifter into reverse.

A flaming blade of the dark shadows struck the lands
with furious lightning it fell into the hands of man.

Upon reaching the top of the driveway I step on the gas, crank the wheel to the left, and the front end swings around and skids to a halt, pointing straight down the road. I add a melodramatic pause, shift into first.

The clouds moved aside as the sword was cast from the sky
Burnt by a mark of fire, who shall make this find
And the grey clouds were watching down, down from the sky into the ground
As the shapes of light were drowned

The canyon is spread out before me, and as I round the bend I can see straight into the valley. Wind floods the car. The mountains are green, in spots the vegetation fades away to reveal mottled granite. Second gear.

Who dares to play with death
Who smells the dragon's breath
No grief for the fallen ones
The search for the sword has begun

Were the music not so loud I think I would be able to hear the tires squealing as I sling around the bends in the road. Doing 40 in a 25 MPH zone, I let the car coast along in neutral for a moment.

Raise the arms the battle is near
Through the mud and waters clear
The blood is coloring the lands again
A sign of victory the wind will send

There's something fundamentally human about speed. All of these things we've built around us are insubstantial and transitory. I know grocery stores and churches and movie theaters in the abstract; they are something I see, not something I feel. Replace this thing with that thing and I would note it without passion.
Speed, though, speed is different. She's the most wonderful, awful lover you've ever known. Misuse her and she'll hospitalize you, but oh, the supreme, god-like thrill she imparts me with. It makes everything mundane in comparison. You no longer live for yourself after feeling the terror and joy of her embrace. The moments of your life become devoted to the next time you can feel yourself pressed into the seat, feel the wind whip your hair into your face. I loved her once, and ever since then I haven't stopped thinking about it.

Until we are reunited, and the ice and snow give way to the summer sun, I still have the memory.