Barbarossa

By Matthew Woodrow

When I was younger, I really liked cars. I even had a bed frame that looked like a racecar. Preparing for the day, I would get to drive at high speeds, I would race around the house pell-mell, never looking where I was going.

Being the awkward, gangly boy I was, I often ran into things. My mom would yell at me, telling me to be careful. But my abundant energy could not be contained for long, and I soon would be running around again. And soon enough, I would be in trouble once again.

Now, imagine the joy of a five-year-old boy who has found a way to combine both his love of cars and tendency to crash into things without getting in trouble.

There I was, five years old, stretching in new boots to barely hit the 42-inch mark that would allow  me to drive solo in the bumper cars for the first time.

This was a special day: the bumper cars were the first step in speeding my way down the highway in massive freeway police chases, leaving 40-car pileups in my wake. (This was the first step in my active imagination, at least.)

The line was long, so I diligently scouted out all the bumper cars, looking for one that would be fast enough to leave all others behind and allow me to slam into my brother and drive away unscathed.

Being the genius I was, I soon spotted a car in the corner. Undriven, untouched by human hands.

That was my car.

Unspoiled by previous drivers, resting up, conserving its energy for the time when a worthy driver happened to come along.

For three whole turns it sat there, no one venturing near. It was as if fate had set it aside.

When my turn came, I ran for the car, jumping in, ready to barrel into the first unfortunate bystander who happened to enter my path of death.

The bell started, and my car zoomed about half the length of the course before my older brother broadsided me into a wall.

Laughing, I quickly prepared to wreak revenge on the evil tyranny lorded over me, especially this new outrage.

I revved my engine.

Nothing happened. I didn’t move.

I pushed all the pedals. Nothing happened.

Desperate, I looked to the  people waiting in line, hoping some nice person would help me in my time of need. One guy noticed my dilemma and started shouting instructions. Soon, half the people in line were shouting.

“Push the right pedal!” I did, and nothing happened So I stomped down on the right pedal with all my five year old strength.

Vroom! I was off with unimaginable speed. No other car could compete. The only problem: I was going backward.

Bam! I slammed into the back wall. The pain was extraordinary.

I exited the car with whiplash, a bruised back back and, more painful, a damaged ego.

It took me almost another five years to drive a bumper car again, always remembering that day. But when I finally boarded another bumper car, it was great, and now I regret those years when fear kept me from doing something I enjoy.

If we spend too much time looking back at our lives, memories can hold us back. Whether good or bad, sometimes the best thing to do is take what lessons we can from our experiences and then strive forward.