Most of the 90s generation people grew up watching motorsport races and almost everyone loved them. None of that generation denies the acquaintance of Michael Schumacher, neither do I. Those races required qualified and trained drivers, extremly high speed and precise timing, and most of all, a track to be performed on. Nevertheless, our topic is not going to about motorsport races or professional races, yet it is going to be about those who drive ridiculously fast outside the track. To be more precise, the topic is about my father!
My father's driving can be split into two parts: insanely fast and reckless. For the first part, I remember when he bought a Fiat nine years ago; the car had a power of fourty-five hourse power --that is it cannot exceet the speed of 140 km/h-- but my glorious father made it go for 160 km/h. I should also mention the next car, a brand new Peugeot, that father drove at the speed of more than 180 km/h. You might be wondering now what the title has to do with all of this, right? To make it clear, padre always has one hand on the steering wheel and another on the shifting gear waiting for the right moment to shift to the fourth gear. He always shifts to the fourth whether he is in downtown or on the highway. Briefly, he cannot drive for at least a hundred meters without shifting to the fourth gear.
His other side of driving, the reckless side, have almost got us killed more than once. Dear daddy always passes cars in either way possible just not to be held for even few seconds --this also brings out his addiction to the fourth. The prominent memories where I said hello to "death" and got back are the ones of our road trip to Oran and in Oran. The first happened in Tenes. We were driving normal, insanely fast normal, until we were blocked by a tractor. Paps hit the horn many times then tried to overtake the tractor on the right. On that very moment, we were faced with a car coming straight to us, suddenly two loud sounds struck, marks of tyres were left behind on the asphalt, and a smell of clutch and brakes covered the air. Thankfully, the collision was avoided. The second incident was merely the same as the first. Me, my mother, and my father were near Oran in the Sheraton Hotel at a round-shaped turn before us was a new driver, which was indicated on the rear windshield with a sign, driving slowly. Father, as usual, tried to overtake him and the same results as of Tenes happened. Believe me, it was too close!
I think the addiction that my father has might be contageous or inherent. If it is a contageous disease, then I picked it; and if it is inherent , I believe I've discovered it in my genes. In both ways I have the same as my parent has.
It has been almost three years since i've got my driving license. Each day, I am becoming more and more similar to my oldman in the way of driving. I also can't wait to shift gears and accelerate to get away from trafic quickly. Yet I appreciate cars more as means of transport and as art under the hood which differentiates me from my parent. I love to hear the clear, loud and nosiy sound of an engine nad love to take care of it so it won't get sick later. I thought I resemble to oldman , but the fact that I appreciate art and take care of it made me realize I am not like him at all.
In the end, I wrote this essay upon an observation I've always had on my father's hand waiting on the shifting gear to shift to his beloved "fourth gear." After having written it, I explored that I have unconsciously inserted a moral that says: rush always leads to serious outcomes, such as denting your car. And consider always that death one of the outcomes.
