I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t rob banks or hold up liquor stores or rip tags off of mattresses—I speed. For every sixteen-year-old, the first time turning over the ignition in that old, beat-up olive Pinto means so much more than a new form of transportation. Automobiles are freedom, but their message cannot stand alone. Long gone are the days when simply having a car was enough to assert to the entire world that you were a rebel and not to be messed with. Today, the symbolism of the drive has been standardized and homogenized by the necessities of modern culture. Mom chauffeurs fussy adolescents around in her minivan, sporting plates that read SOCRMOM3. Dad honks furiously to get through traffic, ever- fearful of being five minutes late and having to answer to his supervisor. Even Grandma takes the Lincoln out of the garage once a week to go to dialysis, peering only inches above the steering wheel and burning rubber at 8 mph. Driving has lost its edge. How is a teenager to maintain his Mad Max image? The solution for many is to speed. For that certain pocket of motorists, diverse yet alike in their convictions, exceeding the speed limit is a conscious and calculated choice. For my sixteen-year-old self, it was an acknowledgement that I was a step above everyone I passed on the highway, or simply a comrade to everyone else going 40 in a 30 mile-per-hour zone. Sure, my speeding was moderate and obedience to most other traffic ordinances diminished any real danger, but the enjoyment of speeding still remained. If someone sped up to pass me, be it in a 15 or 70, I would invariably ease onto the pedal and think to myself how arrogant it was of them to mistake me for a passee rather than a passer. Why? Because it was liberating. For all of our obsession with a car’s looks and design, the trait we come back to in order to label a car as “cool” is aerodynamics—speed. The first-time mother buys a Volvo so her child will be safe—green, to match her Azalea garden. Her single sister buys a Diablo—red, because red is fire and it really pisses off the passing bulls. Either way, their road personalities split straight down the middle with the conscious decision to speed or not to speed, to be or not be free. But the true beauty of the gas pedal isn’t found in such misfit emotions, it exists in the synergy of car and driver. Speeding is a philosophy synonymous with the opportunity of youth—often envied but rarely manifested in such a physical manner. As the rest of the world drags itself prosaically from point to point, from dawn to dusk, from cradle to grave, the speeder cracks a window and cracks a smile, for the speeder is driven.