One piss hot summer night in ‘77, eight teens squeezed into my pal Murray’s souped-up yellow Duster and barrelled down the highway, bouncing potholes at 160 km an hour. The muffler was roaring, the music was slamming and Murray’s foot was lead on the gas. Screaming at the top of our lungs with sangria-stained tongues, I shut my eyes and felt an unfamiliar peace. I could die at any second and had never felt more alive.
FAN THE FLAMES