The addiction
(There's no greater point to this story, and probably, you'll lose some respect for me after you read it, for which I apologize. And, it's being delivered after a hearty knock on my pressed-wood desk.)

It's dangerous. It's illegal. It has cost me a lot of money over the years. It provides a rush like nothing else.

My drug? Speed.

Not the kind they make in clandestine laboratories in the Ozarks. The kind produced by a violent meeting between air, spark and gasoline under a not-so-gentle nudge from my right foot.

Letting loose on an open road is one of my stress relievers. When you're running down a two-lane at something approaching half-again the speed limit, you don't -- can't -- think about anything else other than keeping the car on the road. Your mind narrows with your field of vision. All other thoughts are thoroughly ground into dust. Few things accomplish that for me.

It's my guilty pleasure, and over the years, I've had to use the word "guilty" a lot.

Law enforcement agencies all over the country know me. My rap sheet goes something like this:

7 speeding tickets in 18 years of driving, the most recent being issued by a not-so-friendly officer in McAlester, Okla., two years ago.

I've been caught by six different law enforcement agencies in three states.

I received my first three speeding tickets in one 30-day stretch in the spring of 1987, when I was 18. I received the second on the way to pay the first. Let's just say I'm a slow learner.

I received my fourth less than a month after those three went off my record. (That means I've only had three in the last 12 years!)

A total of $567 in fines, plus God only knows how many thousands extra I've paid in insurance.

None of my tickets was a spectacular flouting of the law: The average over-the-limit was 17.5 mph, and the fastest speed recorded was 78 mph.

All of my tickets save one were written in broad daylight.

I've never really been able to contest one of my tickets. I was caught dead to rights every time. I probably talked my way into a couple of tickets; at least two of the infractions were minor enough to merit only a warning if I had kept my righteous teenage indignation to myself.

In my very weak defense, I got my license in 1984, when the 55-mph speed limit was still filling the coffers of small-town America. But, yeah, I still view the increased speed limits as merely a guideline.

Further in my weak defense: I've never owned a particularly fast car. I never was stopped in five years of riding a motorcycle. I don't drive dangerously -- really, I don't. I don't pass people on the shoulders or tailgate or engage in road-rage sessions. I don't zip in and out of traffic (although I enthusiastically go with the flow on Texas freeways, which is about 80). I slow down in bad weather. I don't speed with the kids in the car.

My father was seriously injured in a car accident. I have a well-developed respect for the bad things that can happen behind the wheel.

If you're a passenger in my car, I won't scare you in the least. But if it's just me and the tunes and sunshine and a dry, open road, I'm opening the throttle.

I will grant that, with maturity and time and all of the added responsibilities of my life, I don't take chances like I used to. Most of the time, I keep the speedometer needle where I can see it.

But I've been facing that "What do you want to do?" question a lot lately. My answer is simple: I want to be a Professional Driver on a Closed Course.