"That won't save your ass when the tail gets away from you while you're doing triple digits. Lose the wind current pushing the backfin down and those little skateboards slide all over the road."

He cracked the gum between his tongue and palate. "Oh yeh?"

"I hit that draft once at 120... years ago. You shit your pants is what happens there." I didn't mention the when, where or why of that experience. The tone of my voice conveyed it all. You never lose a memory like that - paralyzed in the passenger seat, in the upswing of a blazing kind bud buzz, humming along on a rural highway through the woods... The needle ticks into triple digits and you reach for the seatbelt. "Kid yourself," your buddy Paul screams into the wind. You stare at the bastard. How many Dos Equis has he had? A hill approaches and over it you go... a smooth left with a slight berm... the creaky old 911 holds tight, on rails... around, around, around the turn, then suddenly - The Truck, 100 yards ahead. It's too late when you see it... you're already in the draft. The ass slides sideways... an inch, a foot, a lane? Whatever... You can feel the Gs whipping you off the road, over an embankment, through a barbed wire fence into a monstrous oak. Spwhack - you're the meat of an exploding bullet of plasma, bone, flesh and German shrapnel. Then, just as suddenly, the wheels catch. Paul drops it a gear. "I never eased off... You gotta drive straight through those or you're fucked!" The dope and adrenaline have your brain boiling. You stare at the seatbelt buckle in your white-knuckle grip. "Yeh. Of course... straight through."

I didn't explain that back story to the cop; he didn't seem one for nuance.

-- The Nude Beach
The Philadelphia Lawyer