I prefer walking over driving.
I cannot parallel park to save my life, but I can park myself right close to a loved one who is in pain, and hold their hand, and listen to the despair and be there with them in their heartache.
Meeting the sacred messiness that is life fuels me up, but I steer-clear of five o’clock traffic and making multiple car-excursions in a day because all that cruising around downright drains me.
I thirst for road trips out West, but happily give my keys over to enthusiastic friends and family members who express a genuine love to drive.
“Do you want to drive?” I toss the question to my younger sister, Julie, and luckily the answer is always an instant and delighted YES.
Riding shot-gun, I hum along to Khalid and muse on purchasing new pale blue jeans, and Julie interrupts with an excited outburst – “That’s a McLaren!!!”
I follow her pointed finger to car weaving in and out of lanes, attempting to catch the unicorn quality she perceives.
I sit back, impressed by Julie’s growing car expertise. For the past few years, she’s been coordinating a monthly car meet-up, and her knowledge on race cars, engines, champion drivers, and all things with four-wheels astounds me.
This is a petite powerhouse of a woman who motorcycled through Southeast Asia. She’s a dazzling daredevil in a Kate Spade dress. She’s the younger sister who kindly showed me how to climb trees, rode a two-wheeler way ahead of me, and held my hand while we went ice skating (otherwise I just clung to the edge of the rink and braved a frightened wave when she skated pass me). A casual trip around town provides an opportunity practice spotting and calling out cars, while I’m just proud if I remember the model of my car and if I found an accessible parking spot at Whole Foods.
I’m perfectly content taking the passenger side and watching Julie glide as an automotive aficionado, but in the southern-lady-style that is my sister’s generous manner and open-hearted fashion, she’s unexpectedly and nonchalantly pulled me into the front seat.
In the last week, I’ve shifted gears and transformed into an avid Formula 1 superfan. I eagerly await evenings so I can race to the screen and get swept up in Netflix’s “Formula 1: Drive To Survive” docuseries.
I don’t hit the brakes.
I don’t pause to google the rules of this prestigious race sport.
I just GO.
I jump right in and learn as the drivers and their teams navigate the behind-the-wheels drama, tension, malfunctions and victories that happen over the course of a season on this global racing stage.
I still rely on my sister to identify the McLaren and often need to turn to her for a little bit more insight on what exactly is happening in a race, but what I do understand is the thrilling ride of pursuing a dream, of speeding ahead with conviction and ambition, and passion ignited in any person makes them come so vibrantly and gorgeously alive.
The men also look like Olympian Gods. It may be because they lift weights with their heads, perhaps this exercise routine gives that chiseled definition to their sun-kissed faces, or that their mostly from countries that have banned the use of GMOs and other toxic chemicals in their foods. But I think I find these dashing drivers ridiculously attractive because they’re focused on a clear intention, and they commit and channel their energy toward this full-fledged desire to win.
Commitment is sexy.
And while I gushingly admit that I do enjoy the eye-candy, I’m also receiving soul-strengthening encouragement from their stories.
I’m not a competitor. In high school, while the majority of my friends went to soccer practice, I found yoga and immediately resonated with yoga’s emphasis on non-competitiveness. In my twenties, I felt that same elating high when I gave improv a try. Improv cheers on collaboration, a trait the drivers in Formula 1 at times struggle to do because they are there to beat everyone else on the track, including their own teammate.
I’m fascinated in listening to them candidly share about their drive to be the best and even be better than the last race. Unlike American reality TV where inflated egos like to boost and brag, the Formula 1 drivers tend to showcase the toned humility and healthy ego of true athletes.
And here, I confess that I feel envious of how firmly they believe in themselves. They so easily acknowledge and advocate their capacity to achieve and see themselves as worthy world-champions.
Hearing their self-assurance, I experience inner turbulence. I struggle with doubting if what I have to offer and how I offer it is even valuable. I sacrifice my power, and I too quickly back off when in some situations I need to stand my ground. Sometimes I wonder if being non-competitive is a survival technique from childhood, so if I dim myself so I can be less of a threat to others.
Curious the turns this race takes – on-and-off track, on the screen and from the edge of my seat.
So while I may be watching a Herculean hottie take on the lead in Mercedes, I’m also bolstering, building and befriending my own inner drive, my own appetite to experience the riveting rush of life, to let myself go for what I want and know that I am worthy of what I want, of being present for the ride.
And for the ride of the right now, I know that I’ll graciously be avoiding parallel parking, will happily point out a McLaren one day to Julie, and will be cheering on Pierre Gasly in the next Grand Prix.