Originally published on January 25, 2016. I’m re-publishing posts I’d had on this blog that, due to some glitch of the internet, got scrubbed. No editing has been done.

There were a lot of reasons I was going 100 mph that waning summer night. It was a bucket list moment. But that’s not why I was in the car.

I was living on liminal time, between my farewells to my city and the Next Big Chapter of college. I had walked away from my first real love, knowing but not trusting yet that we’d have to take the next steps alone. I was independent and impatient, still hurting but eager for the world.

I met a boy… because apparently I always meet a boy. For two foolish weeks we used each other, telling ourselves lies. He told me ridiculous stories I think he truly believed: he spoke 7 languages, and he had been accepted at all the Ivies but chose to go to UW to play varsity soccer instead (where he was the star player, of course). He was a phlebotomist at three hospitals in the area, and apparently a genius… but he still lived at home, over an hour outside the city.

And for two foolish weeks I drove to his empty, vanilla suburban home, replete with muted furniture and little league smiles on the fridge. He promised cruises and big trips when I came back for winter break. He cooked me dinner. He played the part and reveled in the lies he was telling us both, thinking he was winning.

He was, and likely still is, a loser. And I knew it. But sometimes you let someone tell you lies because they work in the narrative that you’re drafting, too. I’m single and strong. I don’t need feelings. I don’t need tall, shy artists, and I don’t need the truth. I am going to go fast. 

I told him about the list and he took command of #63: Go over 100 mph in a car. To this day my memory of that Auburn highway night is filtered through burning orange streetlight glow. We hit 80 mph, racing the empty lanes. 90 mph, and I rolled the windows down, arms outstretched into the night. The needle stretched past 100, and my stomach turned briefly.

But it was the same. 100 mph is not special. It may be on my bucket list, but it doesn’t deserve the same place in my memory as its neighbors. My list’s philosophy relies on once-in-a-lifetime moments. But 100 mph isn’t a milestone. It’s just a speed.

I’d love to rewrite this memory. The first time I went that fast was with friends on a road trip, with John on the Alki boulevards, or by myself in my Subaru. I’ve passed 100 mph so many times since that lonely August night. It just doesn’t matter, the way he didn’t matter. But part of living is owning the stupid shit you do just as much as the shining moments. That night I was flying through a moment of utter mundanity.

And I was going too fast.