He drove a car as if it were he.  He had just finished tailgating and chasing down a guy who had, without a care, cut in on him with a sharp squeal.  At a red light, he was out of his car and halfway to the guy's when the light turned green and the guy burned rubber, as one escaping a lunatic.  He later could recall running back to his vehicle and giving chase, anew.  In the midst of a chase through many blocks, he came to realize that he was giving pursuit because he could, because he was driving an old yet powerful car built to inflict damage, and that, on these roads, it deserved at least the respect of not being cut off by later and newer showoffs.  The car, he came to think of it, was driving him.  One morning, after a year of getting around on a bicycle, he saw that very car which he had sold as salvage storming down the street, thundering — in a way, he now realized, he never would have tolerated: he never would have let it bellow just because it could.