Published in Kind of a Hurricane Press, Objects in the Rear View Mirror Anthology

Something comes from knowing you’re about to get hurt. The body gears up, the mind prepares, and everything falls into place, like the tumblers of a lock.

The first time I remember the world making any sense at all, I was lying on my face on a hot rubber playground mat, unable to breath.

To cheat gravity had been the only goal, to fly farther than anyone else. The society of six-year-olds is not complex, and my classmates were easily impressed. There was nothing more to it than that. To let go of the swing and fly. I’d done it many times, but this was the first time my feet were not the first part of me to hit the ground.

It was the smallest fraction of a second before impact that the physical melted from my awareness, as if there were no division between myself and the world. There was no worry, no fear, no thought of pain. There was nothing.

After this, I cared less about what other people would consider being “careful”.

It’s not that I liked getting hurt any more than anyone else. It’s just a side affect, the logical conclusion that the moment before impact should be followed by impact. I’m not crazy.

***

A few years later, I noticed that I could go faster than anyone else on anything that had wheels. It’s not that I had more skill, or that my bike or skateboard were any better than anyone else’s, it’s just that I was less afraid to crash.

I knew that as the world rushed in, I would be embraced by the infinite, if only for a moment.

I developed a reputation for being crazy. It was completely untrue, but I did nothing to argue the point. In adolescence, there are advantages to being perceived as crazy. People fuck with you less.

I knew who the crazy ones were. They sought out speed for speed’s own sake, or crashed for the notoriety it got them. They were nothing but adrenaline junkies and attention whores.

I was drawn to situations which carried the risk of crashing into the ground, not because I enjoyed pain, as I’ve said before, I’m not crazy. I was drawn by the moment that loss of control brings, before the injury, before the pain, when the world comes into focus, then ceases to be.

Eventually, I learned to control what must have seemed like recklessness to those who thought I was crazy. A pothole from a skateboard or the loose ground at the edge of a mountain bike track, these were things I stopped leaving to chance. I stopped trying to nail landings. Once in the air, I’d simply let momentum have its way.

***

There’s a ridge of hills above town, and a road that winds like a snake. There’s a section that crosses from one side of the ridge to the other through a small gap in the hills, then turns sharply back into the ridge. The shoulder is wide there, with no guardrail, and people stop to watch the lights of the city far below. I’ve been driving this road since I learned to drive, and for the last three days I’ve been driving past, looking out for people watching the view.

***

I downshift into the first curve, winding the engine. I get a little loose on the turn, but as my tires catch, the car explodes through the pass. Still climbing, the second turn comes into view, and it’s empty. There’s no one watching the city, no cars on the shoulder. I’m well past redline now, the engine screaming.

The city lights are as infinite as the stars, and all are melted into a swirl of pinpoints and blackness. The differences fade as the light and dark become one, everything in the world and everything beyond, and as I join it, I feel nothing.