Think back in time, and then back a little further. Think about when you were between maybe 14 and 18 years of age; when the Kool-Aid was sweet, the lawn darts were shiny, and your personal tablet was an Etch-A-Sketch. It was then you had your first formative driving experiences, whether it was with a driving instructor, or perhaps a relative who reluctantly handed you the keys to their Electra 225.
Today, it’s story time.
I still remember it like it was yesterday, though it was in fact around the turn of the century. A hot summer day, I had gone over to my grandparents’ house to hang around and eat my snack of choice, a pepperoni and cheese Hot Pocket. After I scarfed that down, I was watching something on the little TV in the kitchen when my grandma walked in and looked at me. She obviously saw my boredom, and decided to ask the most exciting question in the world for 14-year-old Corey who loved cars.
“You want to go practice driving?”
Suddenly there was a lump in my throat, and my heart fluttered like a hummingbird. It’s time to drive a real car! We went to the driveway immediately.
Being my first experience, I wasn’t ready to drive on the road quite yet, so I was a passenger at the start. Grandma drove over to an empty parking lot at the offices of the long-ago-closed-down Schenley distilleries. It was only a few blocks drive, but by then the anticipation was almost too much. My fingertips dug into the deep red velour, eyes wide and dry, the ice-cold air from the vents was blowing through the plastiwood-filled cabin at my face.
“Okay, you ready?”
No time to waste. I got out, slammed the heavy red door closed, and jogged the 16-foot distance around the front end of the 1986 Chrysler Fifth Avenue. My grandpa had purchased it at an auction a year or so before, spotless and with just 30,000 miles on the clock. Sitting down carefully in the middle of the button-tufted driver’s seat, my fingers fumbled at the nearly incomprehensible metal toggles that worked the seat motors. There were so many. And my hand was shaking, but just a bit.
“Just take your time!”
I fussed with adjusting the seat for a few seconds, but then I was ready. Fingers found that Pentastar key in the ignition, and turned it. I gave it a bit of gas like I’d always heard about — a little too much — and the 5.2-liter grumbled and roared to life far in front of me.
“Now don’t go too fast, doesn’t take much on the pedal.”
Shifting that Torqueflite into D, I’m sure I never got over 15 miles per hour in that parking lot. Thinking back, I remember how lazy the throttle inputs actually were, and how the softly sprung suspension meant turning was a nautical event, even in low-speed cornering. I remember the heavy doors, and the smell of the velour, and the carpets that seemed two inches thick. Such luxury!
I practiced parking and staying straight in the lanes as I drove around. The whole thing was probably 20 minutes in duration, but it was the best 20 minutes I’d ever had. Interruption of my Fifth Avenue fun came over my grandma’s EMT radio. She had a life squad run, and that meant she had to drop me off back at home right away. Reluctantly, I pulled to the edge of the lot and parked. It was over.
That Fifth Avenue is long gone. It got traded in the next year on a 2000 Century Custom (sigh). But I’ll never forget it, or that late summer afternoon where I drove for the first time.
Pour your hearts out, and let’s hear your formative driving experience.