When I was 16 years old, in 1993, my parents helped me to buy a used 1985 Chevrolet Chevette. It eventually came to be known as the Cherry Bomb. It was simple but sturdy, timid but trusty. It didn't have air conditioning or a cool stereo system -- or even basic "luxuries" like power steering or power braking -- but it got me where I needed to go, and I really came to love that car. I used it for pizza delivery and road trips, college visits and dates. Some of the best years of my life were spent in that car. Tried and true, the Cherry Bomb lasted me all the way up until 2003, right before I moved to the Netherlands and shifted to bicycle as my primary mode of transportation.

The Cherry Bomb was a representation of my values in life: modesty, efficiency, trustworthiness, thrift, practicality, and character. Even today, I like to think of myself as something of a Cherry Bomb. Recently, though, I've been considering a specific parallel between me and the Cherry Bomb, when it comes to the question of speed and performance.

The Chery Bomb was a slow starter, taking its dear sweet time to get from zero to cruising speed. Around town, the vehicle's acceleration wasn't a problem. It operated best between the speeds of 35 mph and 55 mph. But even out on the country roads of northern Ohio, the Cherry Bomb held its own. The car could hum along at 55 mph (approximately 90 kilometers per hour) without any issues whatsoever. But whenever I took the Cherry Bomb out on the Interstate highways -- where the speed limit was 65 mph (105 kph) -- it required noticeably more effort for the old vehicle to keep up. Capability wasn't really the issue. It could manage the legal speed limit for interstate traffic, and it could even sustain the speed for extended periods of time. But at 65 mph the engine whined loudly, and dashboard and the armrests on the inside of the car started vibrating a bit. If a slight increase in speed was required to pass another vehicle I would have to push the accelerator pretty much all the way to the floor, and even then the car would only slowly, very deliberately, make its way from 65 mph to 70 mph (115 kph). At 70 mph, the engine would be keening to the point that it would be impossible to hear anything playing over the radio, and the entire interior of the vehicle would visibly vibrate with the exertion on the poor old car. Still the Cherry Bomb could manage slow "bursts" to 70 or 75 every now and then, as long as the exertion eventually resolved itself back to a more comfortable cruising speed.

One time I decided I would try and test out the Cherry Bomb's "ceiling" on a lonely stretch of highway along the border between Richland County and Crawford County. With a broad vista of the farmlands assuing me that there were no police cruisers or State Highway Patrolmen anywhere in sight, I used a gentle decline in the road to build up speed and see what the Cherry Bomb could do: 65, 70, 75... As I rolled up through the more familiar areas of the speedometer the car started rattling and groaning with exertion. As the needle on the speedometer poked up towards 78, 79, 80, I started to notice new indications of the stress that the old vehicle was experiencing. The central console shook like a jackhammer. The blur through the rearview mirror was obscured by the vibration. The pitch of the engine was frantic... but I pressed on. Somewhere around 83 mph (134 kph), the sounds from the engine block were so desperate that I expected the hood would blow off at any moment. The air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror rocked back and forth, up and down, with the vehicle's vibrations. I started to feel scared that I might not live to see my 20th birthday. So I finally backed off the accelerator and let the Cherry Bomb coast down to its happy 55 mph pace. For the rest of the ride back into town, I let the car wheeze and recover, stroking the steering wheel like a cowboy settling his horse back down from a near-miss with a rattlesnake. Never again did I try to push the Cherry Bomb past 75 mph, and the car rewarded me with many more years of faithful service.

So I've been thinking about the Cherry Bomb's limits in regards to my own limits. For the last couple of months, I feel that I've merged from the country roads of life onto the Interstate, pushing myself up into the mid-60s. It's a combination of job stress, parenting stress, personal stress, and general season of life considerations. At times, my speed has climbed into the upper-60s, and while I realize that this might be necessary for executing the "passing maneuver" that's in front of me, I've also noticed that I won't be able to maintain this speed for too long. I need to get back to more comfortable cruising speeds sometime soon -- and in any event, I need to be careful that I don't push things past 75. Fortunately, at this point, I'm still hanging on like that trusty old Chevette. I am pressed but not crushed, perplexed but not in despair (2 Corinthians 4:8). Still, I look forward to finding an exit ramp at some point in the not-too-distant future -- even if it's only for a pit stop.