This entry is inspired by a comment left in response to this post by my old high school friend, Fritz. Hence the title.
My first gig was as a cook at a very popular restaurant. The restaurant is still standing today, and in fact has branched out, and is in nearly every town in the western United States. I worked for the restaurant for three years, and it was through this job that I earned enough money to buy my first car, the infamous Camaro.
The crew of the restaurant were all fairly young people like myself, who had yet to learn the value of a dollar, much less a hard day’s work. None of us, except for the manager, was over thirty years old, and most of us, me included, were just a mere seventeen. But we worked well together, and some lasting friendships were discovered in that time. Still, since the crew was so young it’s social matrix was susceptible to the social foibles that plaque people at that age, and that affected who worked when. But that mattered little, after all we are talking about the fast food industry, and we all have seen what caliber of people that lot employs.
The most coveted shift to work was “closing”; so named because it is the shift that works until the restaurant closes. That meant the people who worked that shift would have to shut down clean, and prepare all the equipment for the next day. Sure it meant more work, but once you understood the closing procedure it was really quite easy, and almost every night, after all the work was done, there was invariably a small party held in the dining room.
I often worked these shifts as I had lucked into the right clique for the first time, (and alas, the last time,) in my life.
It was during one of these social get-togethers that the weather turned inclement. A simmering rain turned to torrential downpour that even after an hour just wouldn’t let up. Though all of us in attendance that night enjoyed the after hour frivolities, most of us still had a curfew of 2:00am that we were compelled by our parents to abide by. Our proclivity for underage drinking notwithstanding.
We decided we all should leave, and drew straws to see who should go first. I drew the lucky straw, and so was the first to brave the hydraulic onslaught. I made a mad dash for my waiting Camaro debating to myself along the way if running to the car would result in my clothing soaking up more water than had I just taken a leisurely stroll. Once inside, it didn’t matter, and I turned the ignition and pointed my car towards home.
All was fine except for the claustrophobic feeling that enveloped me caused by the illusion of driving through a continuous, massive wave. It was a rare storm that brought with it so much precipitation, and my puny windshield wipers struggled to briefly brush aside buckets of water. It was like driving with a radar screen for a windshield. For one of the few times in my life behind the wheel I was actually worried I might come to an unpleasant end.
My luck seemingly changed, however, when the rain miraculously let up. I was just a few short blocks from the main drag that was part of my path back home. The street I was on had more water on the surface than I had ever seen before, but it was passable as the city sewer system in place at the time could easily handle the runoff.
Or so I thought.
I reached the main drag, and as I sat at the light waiting for it to turn green I beheld another first; the main drag was literally a river of rain water.
Like most streets that are three lanes, our main drag is a convex layer of asphalt so designed such that it allows rain water to run off into the gutter. From there the gutter takes over and channels the water to the city sewers. But in this case there was simply more water than the sewers could handle at one time. And of course the water was deepest at the gutter, (which it had over run,) and was at least four inches deep.
Not far from where I turned the corner to enter this temporary tributary was a car dealership. Like most dealerships, this one had a practice of showcasing some of their finer cars at the front of their lot. The lot ran right up to the sidewalk, and was easily within splashing distance should a car run down the street close to the water burdened gutter.
So that is just what I did.
At thirty miles an hour, much less than the posted fifty miles an hour the city thought safe, I plowed through the water with tires that were worn down far enough that you could almost see the air inside. I laughed maniacally as a huge wall of water leapt up from my wheels, and came down upon the hapless Chevys imprisoned on the lot. Ahead I saw the large driveway that led into the lot, and wishing to maximize the amount of water forced out from between my wheels when I hit it, I accelerated.
At this point in my life I had not had the benefit of a working knowledge of basic physics. I knew nothing of inertia, or the compressibility of water, or a condition we all know today as “hydroplaning”. However, I was soon to experience a crash course in all of these phenomena.
Quite literally.
It turns out that when a large object, say, a 1968 Chevy Camaro, is traveling at thirty-plus miles an hour, comes in contact with a large body of water, the leading edge of that large object immediately slows down. The rear of that object, however, does not, and must therefore find a way to keep moving. In this scenario, it does this by swinging around towards the front of the car, in so doing it will trade places with the front.
Do this continually, and it is referred to as “spinning”.
The object will continue to spin until the friction between the tires and the road expend the inertia of the moving object. In my case, these two entities weren’t in contact anyway because the water acted as a lubricant, and let them slid freely across one another.
But I was lucky!
There was one of those nice new cars on the lot just up the driveway I was now sliding uncontrollably through. When my car started to swing around, it was also drawn up the driveway. (Something about inertia and the force of a moving object changing directions blah blah blah…)
Suffice it to say the front driver’s side of my Camaro melded itself with the front driver’s side of a brand new El Camino. The El Camino was pushed into the curb, and back into the brand new Chevy Impala. No air bag deployed, no crumple zones crumpled, just heavy metal meeting heavy metal at 20 or so miles per hour.
I got out of my car and surveyed the damage.
Mother wasn’t going to be happy.
The cell-phone would not evolve to the point where it would become standard issue for every teenager for another twenty years or so, so I sprinted across the car lot, and across the adjoining supermarket parking lot to a payphone. I called my father, who called a tow truck, and then the proper authorities. (My father is as law abiding as Superman.)
By the time I got back to my car, the police had arrived and we all once again surveyed the damage.
The Camaro suffered a direct hit to the front, but it appeared the only damage was to the body. The El Camino suffered body damage on all four sides, and the Impala’s grill would never be the same.
My father arrived on scene, and we waited for the tow truck. Once the tow truck arrived it was obvious the driver was not a very amicable man. Most likely in response to being called out into the rain at 2:30am because a dumb kid ran his car into a car lot. But my father reminded him it was the profession he chose, and that he should try a more affable approach towards those who put food on his table.
The driver was not impressed, and remained in a permanent sulk.
So that is how I first lost the Camaro, but as in most tales involving me and my Camaro the ending is a happy one.
A few weeks later my father, brother, and I located a whole front end in a wrecking yard in Los Angeles. We drove down in my father’s truck, and picked up the front end for a song. I replaced it myself with little help from anyone, and learned all about how the Camaro was wired, how the body parts were connected, and how the suspension was put together. All invaluable information I would need for keeping this heap on the road another five years.
The insurance company cut the dealership a tidy check, and I went on to take an elementary physics class the next semester at the junior college.
My driving skills are legendary.
When the California Department of Motor Vehicles foolishly issued me my first driver’s license in late 1978, I went right out and bought a 1968 Chevy Camaro. While it was hardly built for speed, what with the stock 327, and a two speed powerglide transmission, that made little difference to me. I drove that car as if every time I got behind the wheel I was attempting to qualify for the Indy 500. I paid little heed to the posted speed limit. I practiced sliding at an angle through corners. I averaged a traffic ticket every three months.
I grew up in a family that adored muscle cars. During the era now known amongst the survivors as the “Camaro days”, my family had a 1968 Pontiac GTO, 1971 Lotus Esprit, and a 1971 Chrysler ‘Cuda populating the family driveway. Add to that the years of mechanical experience accumulated by my brother, father, and both grandfathers, you had a family of car enthusiasts that could have given the Unsers a run for their money.
Probably more through some sort of bizarre familial osmosis than actual education I not only learned how to repair my old Camaro, but how to keep it on the road at high speeds as well. It was all that knowledge that helped me turn that dog into a respectable hot-rod. I re-built the motor myself, and heaped on a new intake manifold and a Holly 850 double pumper. I did all I could afford to lose weight, and increase horsepower.
I LOVE to drive, and back then did so at every given opportunity from the moment the DMV handed me my license. I found the long, winding road that runs the length foothills in our small beach town a fun place to risk my young life, and when other less talented drivers lost theirs, I wondered how they could be so incompetent.
I ran that road at speeds twice the posted limit, and even higher after night-fall when I knew no other drivers would be out, and most cops would be taking bets of who could eat the most french-fries in a half hour at the local Denny’s. That road was like my lover; I knew every turn, every dip, every nuance and how to maximize each to my advantage. I ran it for time against my friends who sometimes had newer, more powerful cars, but I never lost. I pushed my car to the edge, and through some miracle and against all odds never lost the wager.
I graduated to a longer, more dangerous route that runs from Ventura, to Ojai, to Santa Paula, and returns to Ventura, and became as well acquainted with it as I had with good ol’ Foothill road. I would run it for fun all day long when gas was cheap, and the junkyards were well stocked.
It was my freedom.
It was my domain.
Back then I wore my seatbelt more to keep me in my seat than to keep me alive. I knew the road and my car would never betray me, and I never thought I would die, because I was young and had no real comprehension of death. Though I am sure now death sat next to me in the passenger’s seat, I knew not his breath because he held it so tight as we slid together around a mountain turn at fifty miles an hour, or accelerated down the quickly shrinking suicide lane between two passing semi trucks.
This was my thrill. While my friends rode the surf on fiberglass boards topped with wax, or slid down snow cover hill sides on smaller fiberglass boards bottomed with wax, I was strapped in three thousand pounds of steel and rubber hurtling down the road at speeds up to 120 miles per hour. It was like flying.
Those days are gone, but the memories remain. I never once thought I would die, but now when I drive those same roads, and when I increase my speed just a little to re-live those thrilling times flying down the road, I realize just how lucky I am. I realize just one wrong move, and the words you see here, wouldn’t be here at all.