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Note I did not write this. Yes, I will remind you that I am the proud owner of a 1993 Z300 TT, which I have driven hard these last 100000 miles, loving every minute. I turn the key, and she speaks. Deep, low, this sweet voice, snaps to, exits the cave, and comes to life once more. She has me trembling, a captor to her will. I just sit... Can she move? Well...you will be proud of me. I have driven my 300 hard from day one. There is always a feel of kick me in the pants boost. I can make you feel the pull, it's strange, her sense of speed, so subtle and refined, singing her song as she climbs through the gears...it all seems in a dream somehow, where everything else has simply slowed down. And so utterly---I can't emphasize this enough---TIGHT!
The sound? You can’t improve upon it, and where will you drive her? Well, you tell me. I was easily at 80, 90 miles an hour in no time, and that without touching a full 30% or more of what she can do.
I don't know. Can I tell you more? Maybe, but some of what this all is, is still inside me, waiting, calming down, sorta. Yes, this is a very fine car, indeed, and, yes, a full notch or more above all others. But there is something else, something strange I wasn't quite ready for. I think you all know. It's just so hard to put into words. Somehow, as if reaching, I keep asking myself---odd I know---just what does she mean?
Then I see it.
Clearly, boldly she sits on the tarmac, waiting. The sun is rising; the shadows play long as birds scatter. The music is only in my head, something slow and ominously inviting. I enter her and sit. It is a moment that I look forward to each day of my life. When the door snaps shut, the music stops. And as I strap myself to her and turn the key, she speaks in her song again, like a Siren at work, drawing me toward the rocks. I have to laugh, I have to smile; there is something inside me that wants to tell her only the truth, that comes from the sandbox of long ago, yearning for release.
"Take me there," I murmur, reaching down to the shifter, pressing it forward letting up on the clutch as she idles down. She is purring at the thought, chomping at the bit, readying herself, yes, to hunker, leap and finally fly past the great place where light is born, through the heavy lumbered doors of freedom and out into the valley where the ponies run.
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01:12:05 05/30/01
