Auto-Biography 2 – The Squeal

Writing about my life with cars yesterday made me think of how big a part cars played in my childhood, so today I’m writing a sequel about other people’s cars.

First, let me say that the title is not a typo. Second, let me remind you that I am not a car guy.  When my wife’s brothers invariably steer the dinner table conversation to their latest thoughts on cars, my eyes glaze over within seconds.  If only they’d talk about politics!

Still, I have to admit that as a kid, cars played a central roll…er role.  My dad’s family had been very interested in cars.  Recently I’ve been scanning old family photos. Sarah and I noted that in my father’s and his family’s annotations on the back, it often said things like, “The ’47 Studebaker…and Christopher.” When I was little, I loved to go to the gas station with my dad.  I loved the smell of gasoline.  I know, it explains a lot.  My dad could fix and maintain cars, and he didn’t like paying someone else to do work that he could do.  I loved changing the tires from the regulars to the snows.  Jacking up a car is a very cool thing.  How can such a small contraption lift such a huge machine?  I loved changing the oil and washing the car…until we got a white car and had to park it under a tulip tree that dropped gallons of sap on the car.  My dad was also thrifty. He kept the same cars for as long as they would drive. I basically remember two cars that we had through my whole childhood.

But this is about other people’s cars.

I have a late birthday, which meant that when I was in high school, I had to be a passenger while most of my friends were getting their license.  They all took second semester driver’s ed. and were driving before the start of our junior year.  Dan’s birthday was in February, and his parents knew he was responsible.  That meant that every Friday and Saturday night, their family station wagon, the Vista Cruiser (its real name!) became the vehicle for our teenage social life.  It carried us to the mall, to movies, to basketball games, and to lots of parties.   We were only mildly embarrassed to be cruising in a family station wagon.  Today I’m somewhat in wonder about how we knew where the biggest parties were (to say nothing of how we survived).  We had no cell phones, of course, so we communicated by word of mouth.  Someone announced at school on Friday that their parents were away, or just as commonly, we’d roll down the windows and shout to the car idling beside us at the red light, “Hey, where’s the party?”  And then it was, “Onward, Vista Cruiser!  A keg awaits.” We never actually said that.

Kent got his license and his Ford Falcon a little after Dan, and frankly, like all of us, he preferred to leave the driving to Dan. Still, the Falcon provided some entertainment.  It was older and noisier and slower, but it wasn’t a station wagon.  In my memory, it was also purple, though I’m sure that’s not accurate. It must have been “plum” or “wine.” The Falcon couldn’t sneak up on anyone.  I believe it needed a muffler all the way through high school.  Though we spent less time in it, I have some clear memories.  

I lived in Maryland, but just outside of Washington.  Some of Washington’s famous avenues stretched into Maryland, so I lived just off of Massachusetts Avenue Extended. It terminated at the bottom of a long hill.  Kent liked to go to the base of the hill and give the Falcon a chance to stretch its wings.  When he wanted the full effect, he’d turn onto the road that was perpendicular to Mass Ave.  He’d drive down a block or two and hang a you-ie.   This allowed him to give the Falcon a running start. He’d drive toward the ramp that fed onto the big uphill.  When he hit the ramp, he’d floor it.  We were probably not going more than 35 miles per hour, but the Falcon sounded like a jet taking off.  Kent had his pedal to the metal and all of his passengers cheering on the Falcon as it roared up the mile long hill.  By the end, we’d all be out of breath, including the aging Falcon.

I was riding shotgun in the Falcon when I experienced my first accident.  It wasn’t our fault.  Washington is home to a diverse population.  One quirk of the D.C. driving experience was the presence of diplomats.  In those days, at least, a diplomat could get a license plate that said “diplomat,” and it seemed to give that driver a free pass on everything from parking to following traffic rules to actually obtaining any driver training.  They referred to it as diplomatic immunity. We envied them. As we drove north on Mass Ave, returning from helping someone move to Virginia, a southbound driver, apparently returning from another planet, tried an interesting maneuver.  They attempted a u-turn up ahead of us.  Failing to successfully execute the u-turn, they sat perpendicular to the rest of the northbound traffic, blocking the entire right lane.  And they just sat there.  Perhaps they were stunned that their move didn’t work.  Perhaps they were catching their breath. As he rolled toward the oddly-placed car, Kent wisely changed to the left lane and slowed down.  He hesitated, waiting for the obstructing car to complete its turn.  Uncomfortable pause.  After a bit, Kent decided to use that left lane to pass the dippy diplomat.  Naturally, it was at that critical moment that the driver of the other car discovered how to put the car into reverse.  They slammed into the Falcon’s passenger side.  No one except the Falcon was wounded in this crash. Unfortunately, I don’t think diplomats were required to carry insurance, either.  Kent spent a good bit of time trying to recoup his losses. 

When I was in college, one of my roommates (much more of a car guy than I), purchased a Volkswagen Rabbit.  I realize that is not the kind of car a car guy would buy.  Later on he had much fancier cars.  The beauty of this Rabbit was that it ran on diesel, meaning that it got incredible mileage.  Its pick-up was anything but rabbit-like, though.  My roommate had a relative who was selling an interesting accessory for Rabbits.  It was an auxiliary tank for the diesel.  This meant that we could fill up two tanks at the gas station, and the car, now holding 20 gallons of diesel, could travel 1000 miles before its next fill up.  Amazing.  Naturally, it inspired us to take a cross-country trip from our school in Poughkeepsie to his home in San Francisco.   We had plans to hit as many baseball parks as we could on our way across, so we zigzagged through Montreal, Cleveland, and Toronto, among other cities.  In Indianapolis, our arrival happened to coincide with the Indy 500.  I relived my toddler experience (yesterday’s post) of riding in the “wayback” of a VW.  In this case it was more like a trunk. Hidden from sight, riding with the coolers, I saved us fifteen bucks, since you pay by the number of passengers as you enter the Speedway.  The weather was hot. The infield scene was cool.  The beer was cold.  The race was…pretty boring.

In my junior year of college,  I met this girl who drove an Olds Cutlass named Bess.  It was old, like all the other cars I’ve mentioned, but there were two important differences in this case.  One was that the driver was cuter (Sorry Dan, Kent, and John), and the other difference I learned the first time I sat next to that driver in the Cutlass.  She picked me up in front of my dorm. I hopped into the passenger seat.  Before I could say hello, my head flew back, the tires squealed, and the Cutlass rocketed toward the main gate.  I think it went from zero to 50 in about a second…in a 10 mph zone, I might add.  I wasn’t used to cars with power. I won’t say that was the moment that I fell in love.  I’m not really a car guy, remember?  

But the driver.   Well, let’s just say we’ve been riding together for 40 years now.

• Slice of Life