Agent M79
06-06-2004, 10:36 AM
It was a somewhat overcast day in the NC. The sun was condemned behind just enough nimbus that shadows cast were vague and without definition.
I found myself, as I often do, at one of the most insidiously competitive automotive combat arenas in the area. They’d all be there vying for the prize: Double-winged ricers, old school factory iron, European brands of every vintage and economic station, and soccer-mom-mobiles. Each one aggressive, some completely reckless and seemingly oblivious to danger. But each one of us tied inexorably to a single-minded goal. Win.
Those few of us with the skill, timing, capability, and correct blend of power and handling usually win. Not strictly a straight-line race, there are twists, turns, fixed obstacles, and moving, darting obstacles. Each challenge designed by itself to prevent you from your goal in addition to the intense competition from the other drivers. This is a high-stakes, winner-take-all environment. It’s the adrenaline induced thrill-stress that brings us there.
We are tied together in intense competition for the top honors: The best parking spot at Food Lion.
I remember her eyes. Cold. I could swear there were ice crystals forming around the edges of her eye lids. That piercing icicle stare stabbed into me even through our layers of safety glass and enough space for ten cars. Though her eyes were intense motes, I could see her silhouette. The sensible bob hair do, the practical yet attractive blouse. She had all the marks of a worthy and competent adversary.
I wanted to turn away, to avoid having to acknowledge her. I admit it. I was afraid. But I swallowed my fear and subtly raised my head to indicate my acceptance of the challenge.
The plastic chromed “H” impressed in the middle of the grill gleamed back at me from the bulbous hood space of her Odyssey. No doubt the upright arms of the “H” would be tipping back and forth with each stab of her foot on the accelerator if it wasn’t for the fact that all 6 of her fire buckets were mounted transversely.
I am a competitor. I saw the competition and I saw what we were competing for. This spot was a five star spot. Highly sought after because of it’s close proximity to either front door but far enough from the cart collector to minimize stray cart damage. Those instantaneous calculations took place in my head… distance… needed acceleration… arcs and apexes, current and impending obstacles. The contest was afoot.
Our eyes meet once more and I could tell from the slight squint she put on those ice lasers of hers she had arrived at the same conclusion that I did. We were now locked into the struggle that has played out since lines were put onto pavement where people would leave there cars for various periods of time. That timeless contest of skill, speed, and finesse that puts your vehicle in a space equidistant from three painted lines laid out in a continuous interlocking field of rectangular slots.
Time seemingly slowed at the very moment we committed to the contest. My foot, a blur in real time, slowing lifted from the brake pedal and began it’s pivot over to the gas for a measured feathering to about 1/8<SUP>th</SUP> throttle. The sight I saw through my windshield midway between the peddles curdled my stomach and tested my resolve. Through her cavernous driver side window I could see it. Moving from some unseen cubby or cranny those hellspawn vehicles are notorious for, she had grasped in her ice claws a shiny faux-chrome cladded cell phone. Collecting more than the available light, it gleamed and twinkled at me only adding to the icy pain from her stare.
She raised the stakes. My humiliation would have no boundaries if I lost now.
She would have to make a left wide sweeper to get into the aisle and hang a right to get her nose into the spot. I, already in the aisle, needed only to bear closer to the right hand side of the aisle to make the sharp left into the space. While technically I had more space to travel, I had less wheel work to do.
As her van began its body-roll induced heave over on the right side as she spun the steering wheel with one hand, my MM’s front end raised slightly from the power I unleashed by partially mashing the go-slab under my right foot. I was easing gently to the right when I was dealt my first obstacle.
The ’92 Olds Custom Cruiser wagon had lurched from it’s stable on the right 3 spots ahead of me. Having not noticed my rapid transit down the aisle until after moving about a quarter of its length, it stopped abruptly and ponderously lunged back on it haunches. The driver’s weak apologetic wave only producing a sneer on my face and I swerved around it. This maneuver was enough to have interrupted the poetry of the arc I had set up but more importantly had distracted me from my quarry.
I could hardly believe it! Instead of setting herself up to nose into the spot we were locked in eternal combat for she was heading straight down the middle of the aisle passing the spot but more importantly barreling straight for me! Under most circumstances this would resolve without incident but her attention was divided by her cell phone and not divided evenly. Those icy stabbers were starring blankly somewhere into her dashboard as my fear reached a fever pitch.
End Part 1... Part 2 posted next
I found myself, as I often do, at one of the most insidiously competitive automotive combat arenas in the area. They’d all be there vying for the prize: Double-winged ricers, old school factory iron, European brands of every vintage and economic station, and soccer-mom-mobiles. Each one aggressive, some completely reckless and seemingly oblivious to danger. But each one of us tied inexorably to a single-minded goal. Win.
Those few of us with the skill, timing, capability, and correct blend of power and handling usually win. Not strictly a straight-line race, there are twists, turns, fixed obstacles, and moving, darting obstacles. Each challenge designed by itself to prevent you from your goal in addition to the intense competition from the other drivers. This is a high-stakes, winner-take-all environment. It’s the adrenaline induced thrill-stress that brings us there.
We are tied together in intense competition for the top honors: The best parking spot at Food Lion.
I remember her eyes. Cold. I could swear there were ice crystals forming around the edges of her eye lids. That piercing icicle stare stabbed into me even through our layers of safety glass and enough space for ten cars. Though her eyes were intense motes, I could see her silhouette. The sensible bob hair do, the practical yet attractive blouse. She had all the marks of a worthy and competent adversary.
I wanted to turn away, to avoid having to acknowledge her. I admit it. I was afraid. But I swallowed my fear and subtly raised my head to indicate my acceptance of the challenge.
The plastic chromed “H” impressed in the middle of the grill gleamed back at me from the bulbous hood space of her Odyssey. No doubt the upright arms of the “H” would be tipping back and forth with each stab of her foot on the accelerator if it wasn’t for the fact that all 6 of her fire buckets were mounted transversely.
I am a competitor. I saw the competition and I saw what we were competing for. This spot was a five star spot. Highly sought after because of it’s close proximity to either front door but far enough from the cart collector to minimize stray cart damage. Those instantaneous calculations took place in my head… distance… needed acceleration… arcs and apexes, current and impending obstacles. The contest was afoot.
Our eyes meet once more and I could tell from the slight squint she put on those ice lasers of hers she had arrived at the same conclusion that I did. We were now locked into the struggle that has played out since lines were put onto pavement where people would leave there cars for various periods of time. That timeless contest of skill, speed, and finesse that puts your vehicle in a space equidistant from three painted lines laid out in a continuous interlocking field of rectangular slots.
Time seemingly slowed at the very moment we committed to the contest. My foot, a blur in real time, slowing lifted from the brake pedal and began it’s pivot over to the gas for a measured feathering to about 1/8<SUP>th</SUP> throttle. The sight I saw through my windshield midway between the peddles curdled my stomach and tested my resolve. Through her cavernous driver side window I could see it. Moving from some unseen cubby or cranny those hellspawn vehicles are notorious for, she had grasped in her ice claws a shiny faux-chrome cladded cell phone. Collecting more than the available light, it gleamed and twinkled at me only adding to the icy pain from her stare.
She raised the stakes. My humiliation would have no boundaries if I lost now.
She would have to make a left wide sweeper to get into the aisle and hang a right to get her nose into the spot. I, already in the aisle, needed only to bear closer to the right hand side of the aisle to make the sharp left into the space. While technically I had more space to travel, I had less wheel work to do.
As her van began its body-roll induced heave over on the right side as she spun the steering wheel with one hand, my MM’s front end raised slightly from the power I unleashed by partially mashing the go-slab under my right foot. I was easing gently to the right when I was dealt my first obstacle.
The ’92 Olds Custom Cruiser wagon had lurched from it’s stable on the right 3 spots ahead of me. Having not noticed my rapid transit down the aisle until after moving about a quarter of its length, it stopped abruptly and ponderously lunged back on it haunches. The driver’s weak apologetic wave only producing a sneer on my face and I swerved around it. This maneuver was enough to have interrupted the poetry of the arc I had set up but more importantly had distracted me from my quarry.
I could hardly believe it! Instead of setting herself up to nose into the spot we were locked in eternal combat for she was heading straight down the middle of the aisle passing the spot but more importantly barreling straight for me! Under most circumstances this would resolve without incident but her attention was divided by her cell phone and not divided evenly. Those icy stabbers were starring blankly somewhere into her dashboard as my fear reached a fever pitch.
End Part 1... Part 2 posted next