Wild Horses: Part 1

When I was young, I dreamed I would be a famous journalist, or pilot, or jockey.

When I was young, I dreamed I would roam, see beautiful places and experience the world.

When I was young, I dreamed I would be in charge of my own destiny.

It should be no wonder that I found myself feeling slightly frantic, like a wild horse in the starting gate straining against the bars, biting the bit, flinging my head and stomping madly, waiting for my lead so I could race out of C____ the last day on the job. 

Each moment felt like an eternity that last day.  I remember the angry pride as more and more acquaintences gave me that “you fool” look as I told them of my plans.  I remember the fiery satisfaction I kept on smolder as I thought of what was to come the moment I was set free.  Mostly I remember the thrill of anticipation because I knew life would begin the moment the shot of 5 PM sounded.  I’d be off…

Once I passed those glass doors, my life was mine.  Truly.  Completely.  MINE!

Literally, I was off.  With ever the briefest stop at home to pick up my daughters, we were on a 21-hour drive across country. 

It reminded me of all those times as a child, I tumbled imagination first into every story in the Black Stallion series.  A million times I’ve dreamt of myself as a race horse running frantically the way of the Black and his decendents.  I know what it feels like to be given my head.  To run, almost tripping, because you have so much energy and desire.  To pour every bit of every bit of you into what you are doing.  That’s how I felt as we pointed the car West. 

I don’t think I settled into my stride until we were an hour or two out of Indy.   And then my writer’s romanticism took over.  It was dark across Illinois.  I’m not sure we saw a single bit of it, except the halos on the horizon showing us where the next town was and the white and yellow lines on the road showing us how to get there.  Kate and Meg finally gave in to the monotony of white wind noise of the open windows. 

I wished I could explain the instinct I felt for driving that night.  It was as if I was born to run off on wild adventures. As if I was meant to occupy that particular space and time on that highway that night.  I felt no fear, no worry, no recrimination. 

Champagne stank of burning rubber.  Peoria looked like a gem.  We slipped into Iowa only feet from the flowing Mississipi on a low bridge and under a light rolling fog.  By morning, the rolling fog melted into rolling hills and farm fields as tall, sleek windmills spun above the plains. 

For about 20 miles we played leap frog with a passenger van, which now, in the light of dawn, we could see carried a unicycle strapped to it’s back.  How odd!  I wonder what story it’s occupants had to tell.  I laughed out loud and made such a stir about it that Kate asked “suspiciously” if I needed any sleep.  I did, but I couldn’t stop.

–continued–