Screaming Venus And The Race Car

Venus With A Classic Old Jaguar

Today, I will be driving a new souped up Jaguar car, and will do 0-62 MPH in 5.4 seconds.

But first, we have to find the track.

My friend Carol is my navigator, but it turns out she and I are on par with our navigational skills. This means, “not good at all.”

We get utterly lost at our meet up point in San Diego and we get utterly lost when we finally get to Irvine, California. We cannot find the amphitheater.

We go around and around on the freeways. We stop at a golf course and ask golfers, “Where are we ?” and “Where is the amphitheater?”

The golfers look at us, then they look at the sky. Each one says different things and point their fingers in different directions.

We slide my car to the side of roads, pause, and ask workers in orange vests and hard hats for directions. They shrug their shoulders.

My iPhone, in a strident voice, insists that I go backwards but at least I know that’s not right.

Wringing wet with sweat and amped up, we finally swing into the correct, vast parking lot. We’re late.

Wow. The buildings and the asphalt acreage is filled with Jaguars, race car drivers, milling old folks who drive Jaguars, hot house flowers, and catered fancy food wrapped in blistered dough.

“But,” you might wonder, “why are you here, Venus?”

Because Jaguar wants our business. The three latest Jag models are here in profusion and they are all juiced up, turned into race cars.

Carol And Venus, The New Breed of Race Car Drivers

Carol and I are going to drive these cars.

Did I mention that race car drivers are teaching us how to drive faster than sound and rolling sweat?

We are now outside, waiting to begin our adventure. There are about ten people waiting with us. Most look a bit pale, wild-eyed, nervous, and excited. We’re all anxious to drive our first hotty-pants Jag.

Carol and I hop into a jacked up XJ and get our car in the queue. First, we will all follow each other in our hip cars outside to where regular people are driving around in regular cars, on regular roads, minding their own business.

The Jaguar in front of us, we find, is being driven by a middle aged man who thinks he’s hotter than hot dogs on a burning stick. He squeals his car on purpose and lurches and hits the brake and then the gas and then the brake. Carol and I yelp and keep our car a good distance from his. We mutter something about his Manhood.

Next up, back again at the raceway, Carol and I split up. We each get another racy car and our own racy race car driver. I am behind the wheel as we lurch crookedly onto a wet, oily area. Instantly the racer in the seat beside me yells, “Stomp the brake hard! All the way to the floor!”

I think, “You must be crazy.”

I hit the brake hard. BAM! The car stops totally still without sliding.

“You have this on your own Jaguar car,” the man tells me. “We just want you to know that.”

Next, Carol and I each get our own Jag coupe from a handsome driver who is handing them out. We each race our cars around a track, between cones, over high bumps and painted lines. We are in training for the 0-60 MPH in 5.4 seconds and another timed race on a track.

The scary time is here. I’m now with another driver in another car and lining up for the 0-60 MPH in 5.4 seconds. I’m a bit nervous.

I ask my man if he is nervous with me behind the wheel. He says no.

“Floor it!” he shouts. “Hit the gas to the floor immediately and don’t begin to break until you get to those cones up there!”



My foot snaps down, presses the pedal flat on the floor and we scream along the track. Or, is that just me screaming? I vibrate all over. My hair flies in my face and I can’t see the road. Later, Carol tells me when she does the 0-60 MPH, she leaves her body.

Eventually, we’re ready to run the final event. Carol and I will now find out if we are meant to race cars.

I’m in another fast car. A really fast car. My new driver directs me as I drive a new track between yellow cones and sharp curves. We are practicing.

“Are you ready?” he asks when we stop.

I am.

The track is a blur as I race the clock. The cones stay in place. I come in at 40 seconds. The best time today has been 30 seconds.  I feel pleased. Various race car drivers clap and say, “Good Job!”

Carol and I eat, pee, and head home. We’re tired but happy.

The trip home, that should take two hours, is like bad sinus. It is congested freeways all the way and it takes me almost four hours. This drive is more harrowing and madding than the race track, for sure.

I keep thinking, “Don’t these drivers know that I’m a race car driver?! Let me loose! Let me run!”

Later, all night in jerky dreams and even while waking in fits and spaces, I am racing and sliding, gunning and running track and screaming and burning the smoking car wheels as I go 0-62 MPH in 5.4 seconds.

Another lovely Venus Adventure and certainly a better choice than some I have had!


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