Record Time Despite Distractions

When I lived and worked in St. Louis, my then-wife and I would drive down some weekends to visit her family in Memphis.

As far as I was concerned, the object of the game was to get there as fast as possible. Driving straight down I55, it was 273 miles from our driveway to her parent's.

Every time we made the trip, I would try to better my best time, which was 3 hours and 7 minutes. That's blistering fast, especially considering that traffic was pretty heavy leaving St. Louis on a Friday evening at rush hour and the years-long construction in West Memphis, AR.

You had to take every single opportunity to pass the car ahead in order to carve a few seconds here, a few more there. My dad a former stock car driver who taught me how to drive, coupled with high performance driving school and my tricked-out Dinan BMW 535, I was determined to make the trip in 3 hours flat.

It was a cold, dry evening--perfect conditions for any internal combustion engine--and we got out of the city quickly and made pretty good time through the heavily traveled segment of I55 through Jefferson County.

The terrain of the first 100 miles south of St. Louis is fairly wrinkled with frequent bends for an expressway, so I was cruising at a relatively sane 110 - 115 MPH; still, that's nearly 2 miles a minute.

Driving fast requires total concentration--no talking, music, or any distractions--and it was just me, the car, and the road in a Zen-like oneness. The last thing I would do is look over at another vehicle as I screamed past it.

It was pitch black that night, so I noticed right away in the rear-view mirror that there were headlights behind that seemed to be getting gradually closer. What kind of fool would be driving that fast, I thought to myself, noting the irony.

Passing a familiar landmark, a rock which looked like an alligator, I checked the time and was dead even with my best time, so I squeezed the accelerator down a bit, boosting my speed to about 125. At that speed in such topography, I necessarily had to apex the turns by going deep into the emergency lane part of the pavement to avoid upsetting the car's balance. Going twice the speed limit requires such maneuvers.

I checked my rear-view again and noticed those headlights were actually keeping up with me. Who the hell was that back there, anyway, Mario Andretti?

Two semis, driving evenly abreast, were up ahead, so I downshifted to engine-brake, hoping one would pass the other and get out of the way before I got to them, which happened, but I had to slow down to a snail-like 85 anyway before the tank truck got all the way over.

That gave the car tailing me time to catch up. It was very similar to mine, a black 1989 535i, and I wondered if it, too, was a 5-speed manual. I downshifted into 3rd, got over in the right lane, and mashed the go pedal to the floor, pushing the engine to redline before upshifting into 4th.

The other Bimmer pulled up right along side me in the passing lane. At the outrageous speeds we were going, I dared not take my eyes off the road to glance directly over at him, but I could see the car, as well as some movement within it, out of my peripheral vision.

Then, my wife said, "They're mooning us! Now she's flashing her boobs!" Oh, so there were "shes" in the car, and they were displaying organsiae sexualae. Now this put a whole new spin on things, so I gradually slowed the car down to the molasses-slow speed limit so that I could see all this for myself. They slowed dead even with me.

There were two young girls in evening attire on the passenger side, one in front, the other in back, while a young guy was driving and the other fellow was behind him in back. They were all swigging bottles of Bud longnecks and looked to be high school seniors out in daddy's car having a large time.

The chicks were very good looking, with pretty, fresh faces, long brown hair, and big, inebriated smiles. They very well could have been sisters, maybe even twins. Next thing I know, they're "pressing hams" against the windows. They were pressing so hard that, in fact, their pussies were smashed right against the glass.

All four inside were laughing uproariously, guzzling beers like spring water. The chick in front sat back down, then flopped her very nice big white titties right out of her black velvet halter gown, and pressed them against the cold window, perking her nips up to hard points.

The gal in back was spreading her pussy lips with her fingers, and had her very wet, very red pussy open against the glass when I see the neck of a bottle of Bud appear just below it with a guy's hand grasping the base. I slowed to 45 MPH, and so did they.

Her back-seat boyfriend (I SUPPOSE it was her BF. For all I know it could have been her brother. This was, after all, rural Missouri!) started to rub the neck of the bottle up and down against her cunt, she spread her lips even wider, and in her pussy went the bottle!

"Why is he inserting that bottle in her vagina in front of us, and why is the other girl playing with her nipples, and why are we suddenly driving so slow?" my wife inquired.

I answered, "The answer to number three is because of numbers one and two, and the answer to numbers one and two is to cause number three rephrased as a statement."

"Huh?" she said, confused.

At this point in the trip, I would have been completely comfortable driving at 45 MPH the rest of the way, so long as the mobile sex show stayed in the next lane, but I knew the wifey would soon voice vehement objections. So, I babbled some more gobbledegook to buy another minute of ogling before realizing that all good things must come to an end and put the Bavarian Motor Werks hammer down.

And when I say hammer down, I mean hammer down. We were heading down the decline to the delta--flat land, flat road, and few curves. In a minute or two on the otherwise vacant straightaway, the speedo had climbed to 175, 20 mph faster than his stock 535's governed maximum speed.

Boy in daddy's car with foxy girls gave a valiant chase, and I, encountering even light traffic, could not maintain the suicidal pace of covering over 85 yards every second, but he would never catch me, and his headlights faded into the night behind me. They should be parked somewhere, anyway, fucking those horny exhibitionists in relative safety.

I pulled into my wife's parents' drive in an elapsed time of exactly 3:03:03, my personal best time that still stands today. Even so, I knew that I'd blown probably the best opportunity I'd ever have to make the even 3-hour goal by wasting a few precious minutes licking those young babes' eye candy. But hey, life's about tradeoffs, and that night would only be the first that I fucked the shit out of my wife while fantasizing about the girls in the Bimmer.