Somethings Are Just Better Than Sex

I was seventeen, the year was 1973 before the speed limit was going to be reduced to 55, when my uncle asked me if I could help him drive his Mach I from San Diego to Atlanta. This was no ordinary Mustang, not to me. Souped up, built to run. Looked so good standing still.

I flew to San Diego, we left at 4:30 a.m. Drove straight out to I 10, then East into the rising sun. I couldn't help the feeling, sitting beside my Dad's little brother, a Green Beret, the miles just melted away.

We stopped for breakfast around 7, I ordered a short stack with bacon on the side. Took a leak before heading outside. My uncle handed me his 'shades' and tossed me the keys, "just stay on I 10 and keep her under 75." He was equipped with a fuzzbuster and a CB radio for the trip.

I'm here to tell you, better than sex, better than sex, at the wheel of that car.