There was a four page article written by Tom Matano, the designer of the the first generation Miata, which at first seemed promising. But, as it turned out, it was a rumination on the early cars that were owned by his family and his first car. Well, his second car really, because the lead photo of the article was of Mr. Matano as a child behind the wheel of a metal pedal car.

Night Reading

a vroom of one’s own
Barbara Feinman’s column

“The gearshift, sensitive to my touch, responding like an eager lover. I’m strapped to a speeding bullet; I’m not driving–we’ve both been shot from a cannon. Never so fast. Never so sure. There’s pure adrenaline in the fuel tank….”

I wake up with these words humming in my brain. I can’t remember whether it was a passage from a book or whether I’d just dreamed them or if someone had spoken them over the phone. The receiver is off the hook, on my pillow. Whom had I been talking to? I listen for sounds of life. No baby crying. No water running. No radio.

I feel like I’ve just come home after a long trip. I remember sweating in the California desert, but everyone I met had an Irish accent and was drinking warm Gatorade in pubs.

“Hello?” I yell out. I slowly walk to the bathroom. Taped to the medicine chest is a note: TOOK THE PUMPKIN FOR A WALK. BACK SOON. STAY IN BED.

I pick up the remote to channel-surf, but decide against it. On the nightstand, next to the Pepto Bismol, is a novel called No Brakes. The cover sports two hazy film noir-ish photos: one of a woman engaged in something unrecognizable but most assuredly erotic, the other of a car. The blurb says “Narrated by Mary Jo, a middle-aged American serving both as navigator and lover to Ludo–a seductive young lothario who also happens to be her son’s best friend—No Brakes is full of hidden surprises and dangers lurking beneath the surface?’ I remember it was set in Northern Ireland during a three-day car rally, but had no idea what page I was on or what the hidden surprises and dangers were lurking below the surface. I start flipping through it for a random racing or sex scene.

We’re safely strapped in and doing 80, pothole jumping a scary amusement-park ride….

Kind of like my life; we’re safely strapped in doing 20, avoiding potholes, a scary diaper happening in the infant seat….

I spin the wheel and steer into the ditch. Shaking and sobbing, I climb out and throw up.

Hmmm, more parallels. Well, not the ditch part.

Suddenly I remember whom I had been talking to on the phone. My brother had called during one of my fever dreams.

“Hello,” I had gasped, knocking the base of the phone off my nightstand.
“Hey, you sound awful.”
“This stomach flu is killing me.”
“Did you go to the doctor yet?”
“I keep having all these nightmares.”
“Did you GO to the DOCTOR?”
“I’ve lost nine pounds in three days. I had to be rehydrated intravenously.”
“Wow.” He sounded impressed. “When I used to race in the desert I could lose five pounds in 45 minutes….”

He proceeded to recount a long story about car racing in the Mojave, sweating and Gatorade and electrolytes.

I hear the front door.

“Honey?” I yell.
He comes upstairs and stands in the doorway. “You look like you’re feeling better.”
“You know what I’m in the mood for?”
“What?”
“A drive. Let’s go out for a spin.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get the Pumpkin ready.”
He turns to leave, then stops. “Perhaps we could stop by a pub for a spot of warm Gatorade.”

Panicked, I think for a moment the fever hasn’t broken, that I’m still delirious. Then I remember my habit of babbling in my sleep. I hear my husband chuckling as he pads down the stairs.