Growing up we did not have lots of ‘extra’ money: we were
not starving (dad was a public school teacher in Texas, which is still today not a get rich
scheme) and did not consider ourselves poor, but we did not eat out every
night, or have expensive electronics like today. I wore Sears Rustler jeans, when Wrangler and Jordache were the style.
My first vehicle was an old 1968 Chevy pick up. This truck was two tone: algae green and
rust. Zero to sixty in 50 seconds, if
you pushed her. But made of steel and relatively
safe for an inexperienced rural driver. I was
allowed to sell this truck to get cash for a new(er) used car. I also borrowed most of the money from my
grandmother (thanks Mimi!) who did not want interest on her investment.
I bought a 1979 Chevy Chevette 5 speed manual transmission much
like the one shown above. This car had
literally been used by the proverbial little old lady to go to church on
Sunday, and had the scratches on the passenger side door where her lap dog
rode. The scratches were there because the
dog put its head out the window. Why was
the window down? This car did not have an
air conditioner. My truck did not have AC
either, so I was used to riding with the windows down anyway. This car had the smallest domestic engine to
date: a 1.6 liter 4 cylinder. This all meant
I would get 35 miles per gallon, though.
I installed a heavy duty stereo system (I could not outrun
anyone to the party, but the party started when the music and beer showed up
anyway, and I was the music.) and had a very efficient form of transportation
that fit my minuscule budget. I also
worked every day from before dawn to after sunset to pay that car off between
my junior and senior years.
Being a teenager, though, I still lacked the brain cells to
avoid many stupid stunts in my new car.
While I might be outclassed on the highway by the average soccer mom (I
could offer to race the Amish in their horse drawn buggy, but that would be rude), on
dirt county roads too much engine was a liability. Like European rode rallies, control is more
important than horsepower. In fact, my
friends with the horsepower did not need to learn control (they thought) and
thus visited the ditches of rural roads regularly, allowing my little modest granny
mobile to carry the day.
I learned the roads in our county, planning out the possible
race courses in advance. I learned where
I could ‘drift’ around a turn to keep my momentum high, and where it was better
to slow down instead. I even learned how
to manipulate the hand brake, the clutch and gas to spin a 180 degree turn
around (a ‘drug runner’s turn’) so that I could meet my opponent on the way
back (that always got to them). I am not
saying that I won every time, but I should not have won at all given the
disparity in vehicles.
This turn involved hard breaking, working the clutch,
steering wheel, and hand brake together to make the car spin, then counter
spinning the steering wheel and shifting into first while feathering the clutch
to move the other direction. Gravel goes
everywhere, and you are moving the other way faster than if you used the brakes
to stop your suddenly reversed momentum.
That point is important later in this story.
Now, the things we did on the roads give the parent in me chills today,
and today is a different world where such antics would land you in jail, but in
that time and place the local law practiced a ‘no harm done, no foul’ policy as
long as they did not see us with other (adult) witnesses. If we took out a fence, we fixed it. Most of my friends were kin to almost every
land owner so no one even thought of not owning up to property damage of that
sort. (We used to say that our parents
would know where we were if we traveled through town on the highway at midnight
going 60 miles per hour with the windows rolled up: that was how efficient the gossip
network was)
My friends without cars would (of course) ride to parties
with those who did. Since I had the
least cool ride, I often traveled alone.
However, several friends got curious as to how they could see me take
the turn ahead, then be coming the other way so quickly. I explained that I did not stop to turn
around. So one of them rode with me to
see what I did. He was impressed enough
to talk it up at the next party.
That was how I got talked into loading five big teenage boys
into a car made for three (two front seats and a tiny back seat) to show how
this stunt worked. (Did you feel those chills?
Parents reading this all just cringed, and childless dead physicists rolled
in their graves)
You see, I had not taken several variables into account
(those undeveloped brain cells, no doubt).
I had never done this stunt with more than one other person and they
were always in the front seat. High
school physics did not cover the concept of center of gravity, leaving me
ignorant of my folly. I had also never
done this on a paved road. You see, the skid I was to induce depended on
the dirt and gravel under my wheels; oh, it could be done on pavement, but I
had never tried before, a little fact which escaped me in the heady high
created by peer pressure (never underestimate the stupidity of teen boys in
small groups.) I did not have a ‘feel’
for the surface, which is important to timing the required maneuvers.
Let me digress a moment to describe the road we were about
to attempt this upon. This was a paved
county road, going down a gentle grade into a cross roads. The crossroads widened enough to make such a
turn, and was my target area. The cattle
fences on each corner of the crossroads were braced at 90 degrees, to support
the fence in both directions, and to survive careless drivers who might miss
the turn and destroy the fence. These corners were stout: railroad ties with
angle iron bracing, sunk deep into the earth by ranchers who wanted to be sure the malefactor did not drive away from a wrecked fence.
So I picked up speed down the hill, being goaded by my
friends in the timeless manner of all teens raising a hoorah, and therefore hit
the intersection with a bit too much momentum.
When I started the skid, I immediately knew I was in trouble. The tires did skid, leaving rubber behind,
but the three 180 pound boys in the back seat threw off my control. NOW the fight began. We passed the first 180 and continued into a
360, followed by another 180 degree spin.
I managed to regain control enough to stop the spin facing the right,
reverse direction, but doing so used up all my cushion, and that fence corner
loomed large in my rear-view mirror. I jammed
the car into first gear and popped the clutch, causing the transmission and
tires to howl in protest as we left the road and crossed the right of way
(thankfully there was no ditch) and drifted to a stop with the rear bumper
kissing the fence. Rubber smoke was
laced with another peculiar smell I had encountered during road racing but
never so strong. The car was very quiet
(the extra spin scared my passengers) as I attempted to head back up the
road. The car kind of leaned forward and
refused to move. This identified the new
smell: burned clutch plate. No clutch,
no motion. I explained to my friends
that they were pushing and I was steering back to their cars, and that I needed
a tow to Alvin’s shop, our local mechanic.
Not sure what my dad thought about a burned out
transmission, but he did not say much: I paid for the repair, and these things
had to be replaced every so often anyway, so maybe he figured it was just time. I was out a car for two weeks, since Alvin
worked tractors first (he knew who paid his bills with steady work, and it was
not a 17 year old with a granny mobile!)
I lost that car on my 18th birthday when I was
broadsided by a semi-tractor trailer, but that is another story.
