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…