Everyone thinks that I'm addicted to speed.
My friends joke about my aggressive driving. My husband often grips the "oh ****" handle in the passenger seat, particularly when I drive on the winding road that leads to our home in the Oakland hills. Perhaps it's because, halfway up this hill, I gun the engine.
That's when I face a section of the road shaped like two S-curves -- each twist about 50 feet in length. The 200 feet of back-to-back twists make it impossible to see ahead. This is where I should slow down, approach with caution, peer around blind corners looking out for the occasional deer gang or pedestrian Darwin Award contender.
But the luscious curves lure me like a siren. I anticipate my body swinging into each turn as my hands pivot around the steering wheel.
I blame my driving style on my dad. After all, he gave me my first driving lesson when I was five. I recall him turning to me that night to ask, "Want to take the wheel?" I nodded so much that I made myself dizzy.