I was lying in bed, groggy from a mid-afternoon nap, when my brother stood over me. "I'm hungry," he said. "Let's get something to eat." I rubbed my eyes and stood up. I knew better than to mess with hunger.

"You drive," he said to me in the parking lot of the Nu Residence at Eckerd College, handing me the keys to our car. A luxury sedan in its day, our 1991 Toyota Cressida was in immaculate condition, the exterior was without rust and the interior without wear.

But with the words "you drive" came memories of criticism from my brother, mother and friends spoken from the passenger seat. Memories when I had missed the chance to cross an intersection at the flash of a yellow stoplight, and my brother would sigh loudly. Or when I had turned a corner too quickly, and my mother had clutched the door handle. And I tensed up.

"I'm telling you, there aren't that many sit-down restaurants around here," I said, pulling past the Publix super market and stopping before 34th Street South. I flipped on my left turn signal.

I looked left past the fog in the front windshield. The dirty headlight of a pickup truck filled my side view mirror.

My brother shifted in his seat.

My turn signal continued ticking.

I braced myself.

I saw a gap in traffic and in silence before my brother could speak, I pushed the pedal. I wormed into the median lane, but I pushed too far. Too early.

And I was now too late.

"Look out!" my brother cried. But the squawking of horns, tearing of metal and screeching of tires drowned his words. The car spun out of control. Sheer terror consumed me, and I feared for my brother's life and my own.

***

Five years ago, I drove the midnight shift of a family vacation return trip. While my mother and brother were asleep in the front passenger and back seat respectively, I monitored the needle of my speedometer, hovering at the white "65" hash mark.

Traveling 65 mph, even in the tortoise-like right lane of the highway, often resulted in the blinking turn signal of trailing cars and trucks, the roar of a combustible engine beside me and the merging of traffic before me.

Wouldn't an early arrival pleasantly surprise my mother and brother? I eased my foot onto the gas pedal and the needle moved to "70." Easy enough. But would they notice an additional five more miles to the hour when they woke up?

Now 80. That's a solid number: Sturdy, wrought and unforgiving. It knows its place and that place is strong. I again pushed the pedal and the car obeyed. I passed others without difficulty.

But if 80 was good, then wasn't 90 better? The difference between 80 and 90 was like the difference between boys and men; the difference between filler conversation and two raised eyebrows. The needle, now wobbling, inched to the "90" hash mark.

I tightened my palms' sweaty grip on the trembling steering wheel as the four-cylinder engine of my mother's Toyota Camry buckled under the stress. Cars and trucks became obstacles, part of the scenery. And I was in control.

A minute had passed until the attractive zeroes of the "100" caught my eye. I rationalized: If I'm driving 90 then how could I not do 100, the ultimate? How could my family not be impressed?

I pushed the pedal to the carpeted floor and the needle responded, although less cooperatively than the times before, finally creeping - almost spastically - to the fabled orange mark of 100 miles per hour.

Yes.

I had done it.

The road was mine.

Until the squad car behind me flashed its lights and my stomach sank. Until my mouth uttered "Oh, shit," and my family awoke. And until the police officer, in baritone pitch, asked me, "How fast do you think you were going back there?"

What should have been a blink and a yawn - the city of Scottsburg, Ind., a city of barely 6,000, 30 miles north of Louisville, Ky., on Interstate Highway 65 - became a $70 bill, a red mark on my insurance coverage and a frightening experience for my family.

A summer afternoon six years ago, I drove to a friend's house. I was passed side streets and their yield signs, paying more attention to the reception of the radio than the large Chevrolet Suburban approaching from the right.

The sport utility vehicle filled my peripheral vision for a moment before it slammed into the back-right of my mother's Toyota Camry, spinning me 180 degrees.

It split apart the trunk.

It tore off the bumper.

It ripped open the stored cans of house paint, whose beige white we used to cover the kitchen the week before, and now covered the streets and telephone poles.

My frantic mother made sure I was OK, but only long enough to forbid from driving for six months.

When cutting too early parallel parking, I've given the spit-and-shine treatment on the victim's car. When pulling in too close in a parking spot, I've nudged bumpers with bushes, concrete stop blocks and shopping carts.

Scratches, dents, fender benders: call it what you wish. You name it, I've dinged it.

When I opened my eyes after the accident with my brother, our car had spun 90 degrees counterclockwise, half of it atop the median. A stray set of tire tread marks from the victim's minivan haphazardly scribbled the southbound lane, and a row of angry, stationary headlights dotted the road.

My narrow-minded motive to please and stave off criticism has caused more than a few car accidents.

And it's a motive that my mother might make time to discuss in the 22-hour trip home from Florida. Because she's picking me up.

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