Once we got our licenses we drove everywhere. Paul had a Japanese car and my family let me use a Dodge Dart on occasion. We had a 1964 with front bucket seats and a push-button automatic transmission and a slightly newer Dart with a slant six engine, both white. The newer Dart had front and rear bench seats and sat 6 pretty comfortably.
Paul would drive his Datsun, shifting manually and zipping through the traffic. He could be an aggressive driver, but he never got into any real trouble driving when I was with him, and he drove me around quite a bit. Paul would play the radio, or often a tape, as we drove around. Paul was a motor mouth sort, so we'd be talking and arguing and laughing as we drove around.
I drove the white Dodge Dart with an automatic tranny, or sometimes an old green truck with a manual. Either way they were not terribly nimble vehicles, more like boats. I got pretty good with the Dart, you get a feel for the car after driving it a few years. I also miss how accessible the engine was - the slant six didn't take up that much space, open the hood and everything is accessible - oil pump, filter, water pump, hoses, fans - nothing was packed inside of and around everything else the way modern cars are. Working on and diagnosing a slant six was easy, you could get at everything without a lot of hassle.
I drove that car all over town and a few times even further. We drove around to the North end of Whidbey Island one weekend, probably a bit over 100 miles each way:
One Friday night as we worked our regular gig at the Neptune Chuck checked in. We had tickets to the Grateful Dead show the next night in Eugene - my first Saturday off in months - and his Datsun had broken down. It was in the shop down the street on 45th at the gas station where Greg worked and Chuck's friend was pulling it apart to see if he could replace the water pump. After work we went down to the gas station and started drinking Southern Comfort with Coke. I ended up passing out in the front seat of the disassembled car and puking all over. That car never did smell right after that
We ended up using the Dart as the backup since we couldn't get Chucks car fixed. I checked in with mom around 9AM and we went out and picked up the car. I'm sure I was a little green around the gills, but I'd had a little coffee and water and pain killers and was recovering. The four of us - Chuck, Dan, Richard and me - piled in and headed South on I-5 for Eugene, OR and the Grateful Dead/Santana show. Predictably Santana kicked the Dead's butts, even though the Dead were the headliners. Sugar Magnolia kicked some ass, and Touch of Grey was quite good. The Dead were quite self indulgent, pausing for 10 or 15 minutes between songs, fiddling with their equipment. When they got going they did some killer stuff, but the overall show was a bit lazy and overly self indulgent, not the tight and thrilling show they would have been capable of with some discipline.
Chuck had a green Shelby that he drove like a maniac. I suppose that was the whole point, but it took a pounding with all of the hard acceleration and was in the shop quite a bit. Paul introduced me to Chuck, they were neighbors. I remember being wedged kind of sideways in the back seat of the Shelby with Chuck accelerating hard, slamming it into gear and squealing the tires a bit as he punched the gas and sent us accelerating around corners in downtown Seattle, driving home from GaryCo in the middle of the night Paul's nasal laugh, the white knuckled thrill as you try to hang on under more Gs than you've ever experienced before, the intensity of the moment, and then you're back on I-5 and Chuck is more careful, he already has a couple of tickets and can't afford any more.
Frank had Alpha Romeos. The red one in particular was cool, but rough. He'd pick Dave and I up, and for some reason I'd end up in the back there too. I think Frank claimed that the balance was better that way, since he was much closer in weight to Dave. I was heavier than either, so moving me to the back was best. I always figured beggars can't be choosers, so I sat in the back. There was no seat, an I had to sit sideways to fit.
Frank could corner in that red Alpha Romeo like nobody's business. He'd come down I-5 to the U District speeding but not too bad, then get into the 50th/45th exit lanes. He'd speed up, and hit the off-ramp going up hill fast, and swing out up to where he could see the upcoming intersection. On a good night the lights would be turning green with an open outside lane, and Frank would go through impossibly fast. I'd be sitting up sideways with my arms wrapped around Franks seat, holding on for dear life. The cars that were pulling forward looked like they were sitting still as we flew up, around, and past them. Frank had the course worked out just so, cornering incredibly hard, pulling every bit out of that Italian suspension. As we swing out onto 45th going East Frank is downshifting hard, braking, slowing down quickly to stop for the light. It gets much easier to hold on, as the G-forces are now pushing me forward so my chest is pinned to the back of Franks seat and my legs are held to Dave's seat. In what feels like an intense fraction of a second our speed goes from 3 digits to 1, and we loiter up to the line of cars and pull forward as the green light allows the backup to clear out and start flowing into the U District. Quite the intense little adrenalin rush, I'd show up for work wide awake on the nights Frank drove us in.
The two longest road trips I ever took were with Chuck. He had a Lancia Beta later on, I remember driving in it down to the West Coast Computer Show in San Francisco. I also drove to the Rose Bowl in LA with Chuck years later.
We pulled an all-nighter to LA, taking turns driving down I-5 and sleeping in the passenger's seat. The trip down went fine, but on the trip back we got snowed in within 50 miles of the California-Oregon border.
The next day they finally opened I-5 and we headed back North. Things were snowy and slick, and Chuck was driving. He ended up following a truck closer than he should have, considering the conditions, and when the truck had to slow for backed up traffic we slid right into its read end. The lights took a pounding, but the radiator was OK. After pulling over and checking in with the State Patrol (Chuck had a bad history with cops of any sort and hated having them around) we got going again, filing an accident report in Albany when we passed through. From there I took over the driving and was at the wheel as we drove through Portland while the sun set and into Washington in the increasing darkness. I turned on the lights, and shortly after that I got pulled over. As I sat and waited for the State Patroller to come up to the window Chuck was all bent out of shape, he feels that cops are out to get us.
I opened up the window and leaned out to speak to the cop.
"Good evening, officer." I said, being pleasant.
"Good evening, I'm sure you wondered why I pulled you over. Your driving was just fine, but your rear running lights are out." the officer replied.
"Oh, we hadn't realized that. We just switched them on when it got dark. I wonder if they went out in the wreck?" I responded. The officer enquired about the wreck and we showed him our copy of the accident report. We promised to take care of it and the officer bid us good bye.
As I drove North on I-5 Chuck was in an odd mood - "I've been pulled over 20 or 30 times, and the cops never told me my driving was fine." He repeated that a few times, but I don't think he quite ever got around to any self-insight: that the cops, and especially their attitude and behavior towards Chuck (or any white suburban adolescent), might be largely under his control. I'd already learned that, but I'm not sure that Chuck ever has.
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