The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic of

The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic of

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“The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic off the wagon, and in a matter of minutes, I’d be out at the beach with the sound of the engine in my ears, surf booming up on the sea wall, and a fine, empty road stretching all the way down to Santa Cruz. There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, no taking cooling it down around the curves. Then into second gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind down. 35, 45, then into third, not worried about green, or red, signals, or some other werewolf…now there’s no sound except the wind. The needles ease down on one hundred, wind-burned eye balls strain to see down the center line, no room at all for mistakes . That’s when the strange music starts. The edge. There is no honest way to explain it, because the only ones that know where it is, are the ones that have gone over. The other, the living, are those who pushed their control as far the they felt they could handle it, then pulled back, or slowed down. But the edge,
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This note was uploaded on 02/08/2012 for the course HIST 1003 taught by Professor Zucker during the Fall '08 term at LSU.

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