I had a stepmother who liked to race trains. We would be at the caboose of the train and she would floor it. Her ’72 Roadrunner would thunder down the road while the four of us kids, unstrapped, screaming would bounce and bop in the back yelling, “Go Mel, go Mel!” At 8 I had enough sense to realize if she didn’t make it, neither would we. The adrenaline pumping through my veins was a precursor for all the drugs that would follow later in life, trying to reach the same high. She would pick off one train car at a time. Each second, each meter closing in on our destination- the turn off, a mile beyond. With the train engine approaching, Mel’s eyes would narrow with complete commitment- there was no turning back. I swear I would hold my breath for the last minutes of this game, not knowing what the outcome would be, but having no say in my fate. The tires would grip the pavement as if I was controlling them with my own grip on the leather seat. The car would be just feet in front of the train engine and I could see our turn ahead. Mel, with complete faith in her ability, complete disregard for our lives and complete reverence for living fully would spin in front of the train, making the turn by a few feet.