Downhill Racers

My mom and I were once driving wildly,

she at the wheel, the road plunging towards the sea.

Unconstrained, we sped up downhill.

She slammed on the brakes.

“They're spongy!” she cried.

This car's heading straight for disaster.

The scenery shifted dramatically as we drove,

the sea vanishing from view.

We were on a plane now, the engines hummed,

a vibration that sent shivers down my spine.

Meadows stretched out below;

we had no plan, no idea where we'd land.

To our astonishment, someone opened fire on us from the air,

likely another plane.

It was like something out of a Bond film,

but we couldn't see anyone for miles.

Our radar showed we were approaching a minefield.

“Mom,” I asked. “Is there another way?”

She answered, “No, unless you want to try it yourself.”

We switched places, and all I saw

was an airplane's instrument panel - nothing more.

Terror seized me; I soiled myself.

Then, incredibly, the enormous jet became a motorboat.

How?

Our new, daunting challenge: a teeming multitude of crocodiles.

“Give me the wheel,” she said. “I know what to do!”

She expertly avoided their greed,

leading us to a waterfall, fear gripping us anew.

How predictable - our transport shifted once more.

This time, we'd use clever little hang gliders - two for each of us -

to soar above the chaos and land safely.

Perhaps it was a trip I'd always dreamed of.

My mother and I knew exactly why: to broaden her horizons,

blending my imagination with her practicality.

That desire, at least, materialized on the page.

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Thank you for reading!