Whine of the engine

I know every inch of this road.

I know when to accelerate over the hill where the vineyard starts to get that roller coaster high. Rubber leaving asphalt, airborne if only for a breath. My stomach rising to my throat, laughing.

I know which curves I can take at full speed, gearing down without hitting the brakes. Punching the gas to whip out of the drift, a spray of gravel rooster-tailing from my rear tires, then taking the straightaway with my foot to the floor. The whine of the engine, purring like a lover, tells me when to shift.