The arrogance of youth is only eclisped by the staggering beauty of young lives and the stupidity of the short experience that they have. 

In the summer of my Junior, or Third Year as the like to call it at the University of Virginia, a group of us decided to stay and take summer classes.  It was a glorious experience, small classes, great professors, and the smoky sky of Charlottesville with its surrounding green, lush countryside.  I have not returned in over twenty-five years, but my memories are strong and true, my love for that summer thick and deep.

The five of us had know each other since high school or the early days in Charlottesville, and we were all very different.  Sorority girls with deep pockets and long driveways with deep green lawns to return home to.  And those of us who were less prepared for the demands of a fiscal life in college.  The boys would choose the Sorority girls for good reason, well turned out, and with the gift of a fine future, filled with laughter and a gaggle of children. 

I, and a few other friends from high school were from Old Virginia Families; FFV's they called us, First Families of Virginia.  But like cats on a hot tin roof, our heritage included the Civil War, ravaged homesteads and lost fortunes.  One of my friends, nicknamed, Plek because of the sound that she made when she passed out in Ocean Beach after high school graduation, had a beautiful home in Orange, Virginia.  Her family, FFV, had survived rather well, and her home, out of a Faulkner novel, was just down the road from James Madison's beloved home.

My cousin, Stu, had arrived in Charlottesville from Andover.  He was a wonderful young man, and had the common sense to purchase a car that we christened The Jet Defect.  It was an old 1960 sled convertible, with suicide doors which would seat eight of us comfortably.

There is a golf course outside of Charlottesville, and to this day, I can only remember the infamous road that ran through it.  29 Curves.  This road was a challenge in a good car, with one driver, sober and with many years experience behind the wheel.

One sultry, summer afternoon, we piled in Jet Defect after downing a pitcher of Kamakazi's at a local watering hole in town.  As arrogant as we could be, with that sense of immortality which sends young men screaming into trenches filled with the enemy, we drove out of town headed for 29 curves. 

Our first impression was just to set a land speed record on the trecherous road.  Then, one of us, I can't remember which Rhodes Scholar came up with this idea, we concluded that we could not only set the land speed record, but set it driving 29 curves backwards.

I can only remember a few things, the canopy, the tunnel of trees that flew by, as I looked up, arms raised, screaming and laughing simultaneously.  No other cars, coming or going, and I don't know why. My friends faces became blurs, and sitting in the back seat I could see my cousin's head turned backwards, sunglasses tilted down on his nose, grinning ear to ear as he navigated the great Jet Defect deftly backwards at warp speed through the hills, turns and wideouts of 29 curves.

Then I flashbacked to Stu skiing at Mad River the Christmas before.  He had grown up in Paris and learned to ski in the Alps.  I was riding up the lift and Stu was floating, flying, defying gravity and the laws of physics as he skiied off boulders and through the trees under the lift.  It is one of the most beautiful and stunning feats of athletisim I have ever witnessed.  It was like Mays running for the warning track and catching that fly over his shoulder.  You would not have believed it, if you had not seen it.

Back to Stu on 29 curves, the car was swaying like a carnival ride, and one of our intrepid crew blew chunks over the side of Jet Defect, I closed my eyes and concentrated on my mother's face.  I felt flush with guilt and adrenaline at the same time.

The car stopped.  We all whooped like a bunch of idiots, then grew silent as we realized what we had done.  Stu found another road to Orange and Pleks home.  We listened to the Police singing Doo Doo Doo, Dah Dah Dah.  Perfect for a bunch of idiots who had just cheated death.  We spent the weekend in Orange, skinny dipping, drinking, tipping cows and smoking pot.  We listened to the White Album and sunbathed by the pool.

Years later, the images are still vivid, still in slow motion, and I have never told my children this story.  None of us really talked about it again. I believed that we were embarrassed for having tempted fate in such a stupid way. 

There are no intersections on 29 curves, and today I live in the Rocky Moutains where I have great respect for long, steep canyon roads and the lives that they claim.  I only trust, that fate will preserve me as I travel these mountain roads, and that I don't run into Jet Defect ever again.