The state of North Carolina may have been the first to grant me a license, but I learned to drive in Chicago.

There you better get up and go or you’re going to be run over. They drive at breakneck speeds. Play chicken turning left at intersections. Dodge thousands of pedestrians and maniacal taxis.

Had to take it down a notch when we moved to St. Louis. Some folks there drive fast, only that’s not the real issue. The daredevil maneuver of drivers in the Lou is gunning it through red lights.

See yellow? In St. Louis, that means speed up. Like a bull rushing the matador in anticipation of red.

For the most part, Wichita drivers are safe drivers. They seem to take it easy. Five or ten miles below the speed limit easy.

A new friend I’ve made here is another big city transplant. Like me, she’s adjusting to the Wichita crawl. Her explanation for the slow driving is that it only takes 15 minutes to get anywhere in Wichita, so why hurry?

One morning I pulled out of the carpool line to see my friend’s SUV a few cars up on the road. The light turned green and we bolted through.

My Chicagoan stirred. “C’mon. You can take her!”

Chrissie Hynde belted out Middle of the Road on Sirius XM 80s on 8. I knew my friend was listening to the same station in her starship. We built this city on rock and roll.

“Let’s see what you got,” I said under my breath. Me and Cranberry Mary versus her and Silver Fox.

We zoomed around the curve at Hawker Beechcraft. Ducked into the tunnel beside the airfield and whoosh! Out like rockets.

Cruised the four-lane drag down Central. Into the great, wide open. Cranberry and Silver, streaks across suburbia.

It all came to an end when I turned off north toward my house. “Until next time, Silver Fox,” I said as she disappeared into a cloud of cosmic dust.

Two corporate wives. Multiple relocations. Baptized in the guerrilla warfare of city driving in concrete jungles. Set free to roam in slick SUVs on flat stretches of Kansas highway. Wind them up and watch them go.

Truth be told, we were probably clocking 45 in a 40 tops. With everyone else driving 30, we may as well been flying supersonic jets.

We weren’t behaving recklessly or irresponsibly. We were coming home from carpool for goodness sakes.

And we weren’t knowingly racing either. At least she wasn’t.

My days are swifter than a runner;
they flee away; they see no good. Job 9:25 ESV

Fasten your seat belts and coast on into the weekend with J.J. Fad and Supersonic. The S is for super and the U is for unique!