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In the high school year of 1996, enthusiastic with a 3 am coffee buzz and wondering about the possibilities a warm Colorado night could bring, my friend Tim and I decided to follow a random driver to see where he would go, or what he would do. It wasn't long before he turned into a residential neighborhood and started running red lights. Not willing to give up on an adventure, I followed at a safe distance. He began putting on his blinker at places where I knew there was no turn ahead, but I mimicked his moves to ensure a properly played game, turning off my blinker as soon as he did his. Tim and I laughed at our game, underestimating the rage we had driven our victim to. It must have been the laughing that kept me from noticing the next street he turned into was a narrow cul-de-sac. As I hurried to turn around, he blocked us in. And from the small red honda emerged the frame of a man that said "don't fuck with me." He charged at my headlights, biceps swinging and neck throbbing with every step. I thought he was going to jump on the hood of my car, so I backed it up atouch. He came around the side, lunging for my door handle. I heard a loud THUD against the side of my car as I switched into first and gunned it faster than I ever had before. I was a plane without a runway. In the fraction of a second it took me to reach the other side of the cul-de-sac, I assessed my options. I decided rather than mess up a nicely manicured lawn by creating a shortcut, I would attempt to squeeze my vehicle into the space he left between the front of his car and the curb. With mere inches of clearance on either side, we were free.

It was decided that this game would never be played again, because there are people with guns out there, and you don't know which ones they are. As our heart rates began to drop, we felt safe to explore the night again, and quickly spied a lone road cone inhabiting the center of the street. (Our main task for the night was to collect road cones and display them outside the window of a girl named Jenny, she appreciated that sort of thing.) We stopped to toss it in the back seat when a mechanical growl began to grow in the distance. Tim was already outside of the car when we noticed what was happening. As soon as his feet were half-way in the car, I slammed my foot into the gas pedal, and from behind us approached a pair of high beams thirsty for revenge. Tim urged me to slow down as I tried to formulate a plan based on various Hollywood chase scenes I had seen. I was convinced he wanted to ram us. I took the shortest route to a new road that didn�t yet have enough population surrounding it to warrant any serious traffic at this time of night, or any time for that matter. Turning right, uphill, I had a plan. I got on the inside lane and waited until we passed a break in the median, at which time I jerked the car quickly to the left as if I was changing lanes in traffic, and ended up on the inside lane of the wrong side of the street. I had allowed myself to gain too much of a lead before I did this, and the quick movement did not confuse him. He followed my lead, and we raced up the wrong side of the street awhile until I came to my senses and decided to slam on the breaks and jerk the wheel sharply to the left, making the tightest U-turn I had ever accomplished. As our angry accomplice struggled to make a 3-point turn, we were safely down the hill, and then on the Interstate. As soon as we were sure he hadn�t followed, we went back for the road cone, but got distracted again before bringing it to Jenny�s house. I later set it on top of my car as a marker for the tow-truck when I broke down in the mall parking lot a few months later.