[Chrysler300] Fast G

[MATTHEW OSTROWSKI <m.ostrowski@xxxxxxxx>]

Took the "G" out for its first ride, finally! 
There it was, under warps, wanting to get out after a winter of cold, snow and 
no chance of fluid running through its veins.
Off goes the cover, a film of dust blankets the black angular lines and sharp 
points.
I slide into the cockpit, the scent of a 50 yr old decay seems more prevalent as 
I insert the key in the ignition.
My mind wonders... no battery charger for months, will it turn? Will it kick? 
Will the fuel enter the four barrels enough to fire this beast?
I wonder.
One slow steady push, followed by another and another on the accelerator. 
The veins begin to fill, thee slow injections of liquid, liquid that makes this 
machine live, feel alive. But will it kick?
Hand on the key and a simple turn with a slow steady pump, she kicks, comes to 
life, but to little liquid in the veins to sustain.
A rest, three more slow steady pumps of liquid gold. 
Another kick, she tries, but the dormancy of a cold, quiet winter will not 
release to the liquidity of free flowing four barrel's.
She sounds strong. Is three a charm?
I pump. Three strong steady slow pushes of the throttle and a rapid turn of the 
key, the "G" fires, rumbles, comes to life. 

Screw the winter! Screw the late spring start, I'm alive!  Firing all eight, 
burning clean, rumbling, wanting out of this concrete cage, looking for some 
asphalt to tear up!
I back it out, dusty, smelly, but eager to run, wanting the road.
Temp gauge raises, we roll on the street, the cool air sucks into the cross rams 
as we hum through rolling hills of the Nutmeg State. 

Interstate 395, are we ready? Temp gauge up, oil good, engine puring, steering 
soft. Thumbs up as we pass a middle American grooming his lawn.
Right hand turn on the ramp, curving, sloping, entering sparse traffic. 30, 40, 
50. 60.80, 90, were alive! 

100, fuel pumping, blowing by a Buick, a Nissan and a German sports car. 
Cross rams breathing, the engine singing, thanking me for the freedom. Shakes, 
but yet solid, the 375 horses are free to run, free to roam, free to be whom 
they were meant to be.
Side vents open, windows down, air blowing. I feel a freedom not felt since 
months earlier. 
Thumbs up from the High schoolers I pass. We get off the Interstate.
Cruisen in town, at the red  light an attractive 5'-5" blond, with bluish eyes, 
curves equal to the "G's" sharp angles seer's the "G". She approaches. Gazes, 
dreams, wants to ask, but doesn't. 

We move on, the sun setting in the pink west sky as we approach the drive, under 
the tall oaks, pass the maples, stone wall.
The summer home, the new road, the open road. Just drive,  just drive!

Matthew Ostrowski
Norwich, Ct 


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