Just the sight of them makes me grip my steering wheel a little tighter. I cringe and bite my lip, the resentment so tangible that I breathe deep to keep the anger from swelling. And yet the white dashes of I-15 do nothing to curb my unadulterated disgust.
There they are: blatant and unapologetic in the rush-hour traffic. Civics, Focuses, Corollas and Neons – super-souped and ready to race at the drop of a plaastic hubcap.
They come in red, orange, yellow –complete with racing stripes, twin exhaust pipes, and prefabricated spoiler kits that reach for the sky and sway just so on their thin wire legs.
They form a thorn in my side, darkening my drive home to the color of their over-tinted windows.
I attempt to pay them no mind when we’re tied at a stoplight; their revving engines my cue to race them across 4800 South. But even as I gently shift from first to second, second to third, the blood in my veins boils and I hold the cursings back, determined to conquer this, my most obstinate of pet peeves.
But the light changes and my breathing slows, the sight of stock Sentras and bottom-rung Echoes enough to calm my palpitating chest. I whisper a hushed but fervent prayer:
Heaven help those who frequent the detail aisle of the American Fork Wal-Mart.
There they are: blatant and unapologetic in the rush-hour traffic. Civics, Focuses, Corollas and Neons – super-souped and ready to race at the drop of a plaastic hubcap.
They come in red, orange, yellow –complete with racing stripes, twin exhaust pipes, and prefabricated spoiler kits that reach for the sky and sway just so on their thin wire legs.
They form a thorn in my side, darkening my drive home to the color of their over-tinted windows.
I attempt to pay them no mind when we’re tied at a stoplight; their revving engines my cue to race them across 4800 South. But even as I gently shift from first to second, second to third, the blood in my veins boils and I hold the cursings back, determined to conquer this, my most obstinate of pet peeves.
But the light changes and my breathing slows, the sight of stock Sentras and bottom-rung Echoes enough to calm my palpitating chest. I whisper a hushed but fervent prayer:
Heaven help those who frequent the detail aisle of the American Fork Wal-Mart.
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