overdrive

His divorce had been inevitable for nearly seven years. He had wrestled long and hard with the hurting and sorrow and anger and frustration, but somewhere along the way these had spent most of their energy and had given way to the dismantling and deconstruction of his world view. At last, that work was nearly done, and he was ready to tackle the now matter-of-fact business of negotiating terms and disengaging his life from that of his once eternal bride, taking care to protect the kids from as much as possible of it, and making it all legal and binding.

This day had started off with a surprising upsurge of resentment at his wife, who had asked to borrow his cellular phone for a trip to the mountains with the kids. (It was back in the day when cell phones were still a bit uncommon.) It had been a reasonable request, but somehow, set him off. Why was she still taking him and his possessions for granted so long after she had broken off all those parts of their relationship that had kept him committed and eager to share his life and possessions and hopes and dreams with her for the past quarter of a century. How could she be so insensitive to the fact that sharing these things with her was the expression of his spurned love. How could she not see that taking him for granted was a privilege bestowed and sanctioned only by sustained and mutual love. Perhaps women can never understand the assurance and security a man gains from knowing that his mate can fully take him for granted. And that this is only possible within the security of unquestioning mutual affection and loyalty. All this rumbled unspoken through his heart as he handed over the phone and walked out the door to start his day. It was the first day of several in which he would be alone while she and her mother and the kids vacationed at a ski resort at the north end of Yosemite. It would be a welcome if brief trial run of his upcoming single life.

He took the back roads to work that morning, needing the tranquility of the hills and the joy of the winding road to temper the jagged mood already set for his day. As he turned from Watsonville Road onto Uvas Road southwest of Morgan Hill, a low-riding, shiny black pickup with tinted windows jumped out of nowhere to camp on his bumper. His already battered mood dropped into his shoes as he realized that the truck would ride his tail for the next 20 minutes relentlessly unless he pulled over to let it pass. Not feeling up to being pushed and harassed by a tailgater, he pulled over at the first wide spot in the road.

And then it happened; a transformation; an awakening; the birth of a new thing in the core of his being. It was so powerful, and so other, so unlike his normal response, that he knew immediately that he had changed in some way that was profoundly significant.

As the black truck passed his little Honda, he suddenly realized that by passing him, the truck was now at his mercy. He had gained control by letting the truck by, and in an instant, he knew he must take charge. Just powerful enough to take the road at peak handling efficiency, the little car would serve him well enough to make the truck’s driver sorry he had so insensitively broken in on the communion of this once peaceful morning drive. By the time the truck had passed him by, his foot was in the gas pedal and he dropped back into the roadway less than a car length behind the truck and pressing hard. He owned the truck now, and would not let it’s driver off the hook. The race was on and he knew that nothing short of tragedy or interference by traffic or the highway patrol would stop it. At first, the truck’s driver continued to pick up the pace, no doubt confident that he could outrun the Honda that had turned the tables so unexpectedly. But his driving skills were better suited to the highway than the rally, and he could not escape.

As he pushed the truck along the little country road, he knew this was insane! Why was he doing it? Surely it would accomplish nothing useful, and put both vehicles, their drivers, and anyone else who ventured into their way at risk. It made no sense. And it was utterly uncharacteristic of him to react in such a brash, reckless, and aggressive manner. For twenty minutes, the drive surged on up the road unabated, pushing to speeds above 75 miles per hour at times and almost never dropping below 65. The road was designed and safe for 40 to 50. For twenty minutes he marveled and wondered at the insanity of what he was doing, and yet did not care. He owned the truck. He owned the road. He knew every turn, dip, and bank, and optimized his gears and power and handling to push the truck’s driver as far out of his skill level as possible without making him lose the road. Not only did he know the road, and his own limits, but he also seemed to know the limits of the other driver and how far past them he could push him. Why was he doing this! Was he angry at tailgaters? Yes, but not this angry! Was he irritated at his wife for taking him and his phone for granted? Maybe, but again, not enough to warrant this crazy reckless rush!

Finally he came to his turnoff and let the truck go. He would spend that day and part of the next unraveling the drive and its mysterious transforming power and significance, realizing that he, not his wife, or the tailgater, was the key to the meaning of the drive. He was the one who had been pushed; who had yielded passively, to his own detriment, all these years, and he was the one who, in twenty minutes of relentless power driving, had suddenly and decisively regained control of and responsibility for his own life and well-being. Now the time had come to drive his divorce, and his new life, to reality.