Strangers though we may be, I recently experienced something so personal, but so wonderful, that I can bottle it up no longer. It is the passionate story of my first time; a moment I will treasure for the rest of my life.

It starts as many tales do, with a young woman. She gave me some instructions, but I was impatient. A few flicks of my wrist later, and I was done before she could finish.

Even with all of the scientific innovation and technological advances of our day, I choose to don protection—better safe than sorry, but honestly, I don’t mind. If you had seen her, you wouldn’t have minded either.

The moment—the definitive one in a person’s life, was upon me, but I hesitate. Never, in my wildest imagination, did I think it would happen this way: so fast, so… un-romantic? I expected it to be much slower, and I certainly expected it would have been less of a spectacle. I thought there would have been more time to talk and at least introduce myself, but I was out of time, and so I was urged to approach. Like any other reasonable person in this situation, I entered and it began.

Could I have waited for a more intimate opportunity for my first time? Sure, but I’m glad I chose to do it when I did. It was faster, more fun and more exciting than I ever thought it could be. I held on for dear life and refused to let go. It was violent yet controlled. It was less about wild thrashing, and more about calculated thrusting and gripping. What I once thought was the pinnacle of existential being, was clearly too small, too narrow and far too limited. This is one of those moments that hooks you and never lets go; you want it to never end, and you will always want more.

By now, you may suspect that your experience was no different than mine and that your experience was just as special as mine; in all likelihood, you would be wrong. Call me smug, but I sat in a Ferrari.

Now you may object in all sorts of ways, attempting to emphasize the fortitude of your experience: a random, but nice lady let you sit in hers in the movie theater parking lot; or your obscenely-rich-for-no-good-reason uncle, whom you almost never see, let you sit in his while it was in the garage; or perhaps best of all three—you were entertaining a sporting-good client whom happened to be in a good mood, and urgently needed to go to a grocery store only accessible by highway, and so he offered a ride in his lavishly new Ferrari, that he will trade-in for a newer model next year.

Maybe the stars aligned for you, and this fellow punched it out at a green, just for a block, when he hit a red light. Or God-forbid, you hit 110 mph for a moment on the highway, but fearful of a ticket, the car was quickly brought down to a meager 80 mph. Good for you—you have experienced a snippet of what a Ferrari can do. Protest as fiercely as you desire, but I forgot one important detail: it was on a race track.

Most people with a pulse would say this was a fine and wonderful experience and brag about it for years. Over time, the story would reach all new heights of craziness—the top speed would climb and the driving style will become more dare-devilish and inane with every telling. Most people that hear the story will mentally acknowledge some inadvertent embellishments on your part, nonetheless accepting your story in whole; try to counter with one of their own, or perhaps the moment will just move on for everybody else. But you—you reflect for a moment. You think back on your first time and you cherish it all because it was a Ferrari.

When I was first introduced to the beast, I ran up to the passenger door, face bright as it was when I was a child on Christmas morning. Scared to scratch the paint, I flattened my hands and ran them over the bend at the top of the door—hovering as low as possible over the body without touching it. Immediately given the life-changing permission to touch it and open the door, I used as few fingers and the lightest touch possible to open the door. First my eyes went wide, then as I opened the door further, my top lip began to curl and my cheeks swelled—don’t worry—I’m okay, I’m just smiling.

Permission confirmed, I carefully entered and gingerly situated myself in the seat. Wow! I was sitting in a Ferrari—who would have thought?

That is how I expected my first time to be—mesmerizing and romantic. But unfortunately, I couldn’t afford the time for all that mooshy stuff.

I honestly don’t remember how I got to her—it was just as if I was drawn to her, but once I got there, I entered with enthusiasm, and instinctively buckled my seat belt. That’s weirdly… normal? But yet I savored those first few moments; capturing and cataloguing them for the rest of my being because it was a Ferrari.

Without warning, but almost as if the car is smugly said, “watch this,” I was jettisoned back into my seat. The closest experience I can think of that the average Joe would have, would be riding a roller coaster. But don’t think for a moment you can ride a roller coaster and check off “ride in a Ferrari” from your bucket list; it is still an inadequate compromise of comparison. Riding a roller coaster is like being ripped apart limb by limb on a Crusades-era stretching machine operating during an earthquake. Riding in a Ferrari is much more akin to gravity having its way with you than it is being a helpless ragdoll.

Believe me when I tell you, it takes more than just a driver with whom is merely familiar with 450+ horses for you to appreciate a Ferrari. The ability to launch and halt this beast in and out of corners is just staggering. It takes someone who knows what he or she is doing to blast out of Turn 3 and down to Turn 4, one of my favorite parts of the track prior to construction. We were finally at the part of the track that always made me giddy to drive by during construction of the track.

Turn 4 is typically blocked off by a handful of concrete pillars that have little gardens on the top of them. For most of the year, they are used to protect a parking lot that is used as a market on the weekend. So for 350 days a year, you will never see someone make a right turn, but skid marks remain. To me, these marks they symbolized excitement, fast cars, loud engines, and the coming together of an approaching IndyCar race. Turn 4 was a symbol for me.

As we prepare for Turn 4, the downshifts scream the car’s hatred for going slow, but its brakes willingly oblige the driver’s commands. And with a late turn-in, we enter Turn 5, as I hold onto what I call the “O-S!-B,” while you may know it simply as the “handlebar.” Aware of wait lays ahead, I continue to hold on, knowing that Turn 6 is almost immediately followed by a change in direction at Turn 7. And as we push out of Turn 9, we shot off down the scenic Acura Advance, past the docks, past the yachts, and past people that could only be described as envious blurs.