Airborne

Some days are better than others. There are people around the world who will go to sleep tonight on a concrete floor. Some will not have eaten. Some will be dealing with medical conditions. 
I may not be able to save the world, but I can assist in that endeavor. And maybe, through my efforts, one person will sleep better.

And so, on this cold Saturday morning, Brian and I are driving toward downtown Raleigh to take part in a community wood chop. The firewood we make will be taken to people's homes who are too poor to afford it or too frail to split their own. With an axe, a maul, and 3lb wedge in the back seat, we sped off into the sunrise.

Another reason I was excited to be out was that I had just recently purchased my first car. At 22.5ft (6.8m) long, 6.5ft (2m) wide, and made of solid sheet metal the '71 Plymouth Furry II was refered to by many as a tank. But such a moniker is inappropriate since it was actually larger than the US-made T92.
On the rolling hills of Creedmore Road, once you passed 75mph, it would sway from side to side and up and down. Maneuvering this beast was not unlike that of a boat. And so on this morning my grin was particularly cheesy as we made our way to Hillsborough Street.

Past the NCSU bell tower. Through a few yellow lights. A sharp right then left. Morgan widened to three lanes, one-way. The last time I had been on this road I lost my stomach while going over the bridge above the railroad track. 
My eyes focused further ahead to the light at West Street. It had just turned green. I checked the mirror for cars that may be following too close. No one. 
"Hey, Brian. Check this out."
I gave my boat a little more gas. We went up the gentle side of the bridge and dropped quickly off the other; both of us felling the split secound loss of gravity. 
"Wooo!" Brian exclaimed.
I managed only a laugh-mixed, "Yeah!"
At the bottom of the dip, the g-forces brought our butts deeper into the leather bench seat. 

The notion of putting my seatbelt on crossed my mind, but I thought it better to wait until we had come to a safe stop.
My eyes reconnected with the light which was still green. My foot reconnected with the gas peddle which was still pressed low.
A shinny black car pulled out from a parking spot on the left; not into our lane, though. He stayed in his. Another was just making the right hand turn from West onto Morgan; again staying in his right-most lane. The path down the middle was clear as far as I could see and the green light at Harrington gave me the right-of-way.
We went under the light at West. 
Something in that moment lightened my mind and relaxed my hands. On a given weekday you'd be lucky to make it two blocks without having to stop at a light or wait for crossing traffic to clear. On this day the sun shown bright. The sky a deep, cold blue. Narry a pigeon to give reason or warning as we were fast approaching the other two vehicles and the intersection with Harrington.
We went under the light.

South Harrington was reconstructed some years prior with a water main running directly under it. The line was raised higher than most others, on account of a large chunk of granite that the contractors decided not to remove: It's shallow depth requiring a more severe curvature to the road above. The resulting marvel of engineering meant the street we were to cross was cambered a good foot and a half above the one we were on.
We hit the abrupt incline at probably 60mph.
With a thounderous roar of metal scrapping on concrete; shocks put to their full test; the Furry took flight.
Brian had been preparring to point out that I was exceeding a safe speed; his attention having been drawn to the rear-end of the Chevy Nova in the lane to our right and its trunk tied to the bumper with a bungee cord.
He turned his head, his gaze fixed on the trunk; then the roof with its worn away paint spots. Then the front windshield; doubting that anyone had ever seen their Wolfpack bobblehead on the dashboard from that perspective.

My hands gripped tight enough to damage my fingers against the hard spikes of the ergonomic wheel. The black Porsche 911 Turbo I had, for a brief moment, longed to own, dissapeared below my window.
I could see a discarded cup from Circle-K rolling under a parked car: A car I should not be able to see. And then it hit me, "very soon I WILL own that Porsche...or at least what is left of it."
With another Earth shattering, spark filled crash the Furry landed...bottomed out...lifted up again...then settled into its familiar, gentle oscillation.
I found the wherewithal to hit the breaks,  though using both feet might have been a bit aggressive. We slid half a block stopping with a jolt just on the white line of Dawson Street. My hands sore from their grip. Brian's eyes wide, his face white.
The two neighboring cars pulled slowely beside us. Each driver seeming to want to coment, perhaps even to ask if we were ok, but then again probably wanting more to find the nearest car wash and laundromat.
The light turned green. Unsure the car wasn't in pieces, I slowely pressed the gas. We inched forward.
A few blocks, without comment, without a sound, we pulled into the parking lot. Got out. Collected the tools. And then, with a renewed since of purpose we began to breath.