It wasn’t a punchy sports car. I think my max speed on a downhill run was something like 16.8 mph. It wasn’t bright orange; it was Oregon Duck green and yellow, the height of a small house and the width of a single wide trailer.
My first experience driving a six-figure price tag vehicle came at the ripe age of eleven, behind the wheel of a combine on my family’s farm.
Fast forward seventeen years: sliding into a Lamborghini sports car, I clenched every muscle tight and whispered a prayer as the professional driver punched the accelerator to blow past 168 mph and on toward blurred vision. Ted chased behind us, solo at the wheel of a shiny Gallardo after a full day of precision control maneuvers and on-track training.
Pinch us, can this possibly be real?
