Flat Roads Don’t Fly

Firebird, pre and post flight.

I shifted into third gear, winding the engine until it screamed. The road ahead was clear. I centered on the line, hit the bump, and felt the car lift, just for a fraction of a second, air beneath the tires. Freedom.

The road was Clay Street, just outside of town, a stretch of asphalt built with unintentional mischief. The humps were perfect for loosening a stomach, or, if the timing was right, offering a taste of flight.

It was a game. You distracted your passenger, lined up the car, and let the road do its work. “Gotcha.”

Skid marks, scraped mufflers, and the occasional lost hub cap lying in the ditch were all evidence of the good times had.

Years later, driving with the boys into the city, I spotted the turnoff. Clay Street. The GPS hadn’t suggested it. My wife smiled faintly. She knew.

I did the old trick. A question tossed into the back seat for distraction: If you could have any superpower, what would it be? I let the car roll over the rise. Perfect timing, and then…

Nothing.

The boys kept talking, looking out the window.

I glanced at M. Had I lost the knack? Nope… the road had. Repaved, regraded, leveled flat. A few humps remained, but they no longer carried air, or surprise.

It was safer this way, of course. Practical. No teenagers in firebirds going airborne, no fathers with children hoping for nearly tossed cookies.

I tell my wife frequently that what makes something memorable is the element of danger. She laughs, a little uneasily, but she understands what i’m saying.

Because a little bit of chance and mischief is what keeps the world from flattening. Without it, the roads become straight, the rides predictable.

And sometimes, if only for a second, what we need is to feel the air beneath us.

Freedom.

- Michael

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Painting is my current method of flight… check it out at

Michaeltsmith.com

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