On the subject of cars:
Yes, now that I'm older (but not necessarily wiser), I tend to drive smaller, more economical vehicles. I do drive them fast on the highways, and love to take corners quick and tight, because that's the only real adrenaline rush I get these days. But I play it cool in residential areas, and I don't weave in-and-out. I just like to get in the fast lane and go...fast.
HOWEVER...in my youth, where it is said that "God protects fools and drunks" , I did drive quite foolishly (but never drunk). There is nothing like the feel of 350+ HP rumbling under the hood in the 400 cubic inch (that's 6.56 litres) ram-air 8-cylinder engine, dual carbs and a transmission that could do 0-60 in about 6.5 seconds - sitting at a red light, idling and purring, and when it goes green, stomping down that pedal, the engine roaring to life, rear wheels spinning and smoking, and the front end trying to lift itself off the ground. It was like an Atlas rocket taking off - a lot of noise and smoke at first, and then enough acceleration to send your eyes to the back of your head.
Then, when you look up in your rear view, and all you see is empty road and your smoke trails, you know you've left everything else behind. But that's not enough. The speedometer was an old-school analog dial, and it went to 160. At 110, everything is a blur, and she's humming along at about 3,000 RPM. At 120, it's a little louder - you start to hear the wind racing past your side view mirror, and the steering gets a little loose. At 130, she's up to about 3,500 RPM, and the engine is growling - but it's a good sound, like a lion on the hunt. It wants more - it can do more. You hope the road stays straight, because the front wheels are barely touching the ground. At 140, your friend in the passenger seat has finally stopped screaming for you to slow down and graciously passed out. Good thing he's there to keep the weight even at this speed. At 150 or so the pedal won't go down any more. The engine is cranking at 4,500 RPM, and you are passing small planes. The cop behind the tree catches you on radar, and by the time he looks up, you're nothing but a blur on the horizon. Your heart is pounding, you're in the moment, and you know down deep that one little mistake means oblivion. But that's the rush, the excitement, the edge.
And speaking of Rush, you hear "Red Barchetta" playing on the radio...
"I fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar.
Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime...
Wind- In my hair- Shifting and drifting-
Mechanical music- Adrenalin surge..."
At this speed, you only have a few minutes before your exit rolls up, and reluctantly you slow down to something that resembles the speed limit, and decelerate into suburbia. This ride is over - but there's always time for one later.
I'll tell you, driving that car was ALMOST better than sex. Didn't care that it got 15MPG - it was power and muscle and status and an escape from the everyday crap. No luxuries like AC or power windows. Just raw car.
Ah, to be young and free again...