Cutting them off was fun. Nothing was too close, just as long as he didn't hit them. He didn't necessarily want the trucks to jackknife, though that would sure be nice to see.

"Look at this slow ride," said Reggie, pointing to an 18-wheeler tanker truck riding in the left lane.

Sitting shotgun was Stu, who scribbled on a yellow notepad. Plugged into writing a screenplay, he didn't look up at the truck, or at the Pennsylvania Turnpike whizzing by, or even glance at the speedometer, which was passing 90.

Stu wore dark-framed Buddy Holly glasses and a wrinkled plaid shirt. Reggie wore no shirt. He didn't wear shoes or socks either. When he drove, he liked to let the engine's power and vibrations float up his body from his feet. You can't feel your car's power with shoes on, he reasoned. It's got to be bare skin on the metal of the pedal.

Neither wore seat belts. Belts were for pussies. Wearing a seat belt was like strapping on a condom for sex. It just didn't feel right.

"Should there be romance in this movie, you think?" asked Stu, nibbling on the end of his chewed-up pen.

"No, just sex," replied Reggie, swerving his car in front of the tanker truck, which blasted its horn. Reggie smiled. "And violence. And don't forget to have car chases."

It was 3 a.m., and Reggie and Stu were about halfway through a Philadelphia to Pittsburgh run. The night was clear, not too hot, and there was no rain. Bruce Springsteen blared on the stereo, not at ear-destroying levels, but just loud enough to be heard over the Cavalier's engine and the wind tunnel of breeze swooshing through the car's open windows. No air conditioning was needed, which was fine with Reggie and Stu. AC only served to distance you from the highway's tastes and smells and sounds. Roll up the windows, and you're partly closed off from the feel of the night and the road.

In short, all conditions were perfect for rampaging down the highway.

"Here comes a snail," said Reggie, as a minivan quickly filled up their windshield. "I've never seen a minivan that moves fast. Those goddamn soccer moms. They need to get laid by a 200-pound linebacker to loosen them up. This is ridiculous."

He pulled up right behind the van. Inches separated the two vehicles.

"God bless ABS brakes," Reggie said. "I couldn't get this close with regular brakes."

"You call this close?" said Stu, looking up from his notepad. "This isn't close."

"What are you talking about? I'm practically touching her bumper. This takes skill."

"Fuck you. If I was any closer, I'd be up this chick's ass."

The van got out of the left lane and Reggie flashed its driver a grin full of teeth as he passed. On the stereo, Springsteen gave way to Chuck Berry. The two rockers were Reggie's favorites because they both sang so much about cars.

"Yeah, don't forget about car chases," said Reggie, driving with one hand. You looked stupid using two. That was an accepted fact.

"And make them cool car chases. And don't forget the ending. That's got to be good."

"What would you suggest?" Lying down on the front seat, Stu dangled his legs outside the passenger window.

"I don't know. Maybe they should ride off into the sunset in a Mustang or '57 Chevy."