gastric acting

And it happened that while driving a stretch of intimately-familiar hairpin road, I felt an honest surge of adrenaline.
First there was the white-knuckled turn that found me trying to squeeze cheese from the steering wheel because all four wheels were screaming at the second degree of desperation (first degree: I missed a busy red light; second, I'm about to plough into that old lady; third come about the time you're saying, "The St. Peter??") when I should've been downshifting. Only problem was that my death grip was contributing considerably to the longevity of the car; removing a hand would've been about like removing a wheel as I slid sideways across the lanes.
A couple turns later, I discovered how to control the wheel with one hand and pacify the death grip with the other, conveniently placed on the shift knob. But with that gear all wound up, stepping on it after the apex of the turn just kept the car more sideways than even my judgment deemed prudent.
But once I figured all of that out (well enough), I did great up until a revalation: as I slid sideways around a turn, gripping the asphalt at four tangentially sliding points, I noticed a rather large stump--scarred by ages of abuse from doofuses like me and snow ploughs--just past the apex of the turn, where my gravitational load would be greatest. It occurred to me that if any of my tires were to break loose, I would quickly and permanently become one with the stump.
And not to say anything about it, but the realization gave me as much chemical reaction as I had when a Highway Patrol car flipped a bitch to spend 40 minutes following me through low-speed zones. Not to say anything about that, but some things make your stomach perform strange and horrible acts.