As many of my long-time readers know, I have been married more than once. My exes have ranged from captains of industry to musical prodigies. But they all had one thing in common. (Besides me.)
They were great drivers.
True, when my first husband, Billy, and I met, he wasn’t sixteen. He didn’t even have a driver’s license yet.
But that never stopped him from seeing me.
He used to run over from his house in Glencoe to my house in Wilmette. But sometimes he would steal one of his parents’ cars when he didn’t feel like hoofing it. (I think it’s safe to report this now because the statute of limitations has probably run out on that particular misdemeanor.)
But the day Billy turned legal, he got a license- and a Pontiac Catalina convertible to go with it. His car-stealing days were over.
Later on he got a Shelby GT-350. British racing green and a real honey. He sold it to my brother at a very low price as a wedding gift. Kenny drove it in high school and then my folks sold it for peanuts, I’m sure.
(Both guys are probably kicking themselves today over this car sale-related tragedy. If only…)
But Billy was just the first in a long line of intrepid wheelsmen to whom I was wed.
Good driving skills are important to me. Like real important. Right up there with good looks and talent.
I think it must be a sign of masculinity or something. And in Aspen, the ability to park a car in a teensy, snowy, highly sought-after great space often determined the difference between a rockin’ dinner at Piñon’s, and having to give up and either bite the bullet (and the barbecue beef) at Little Annie’s or finally valet the damn thing at the Nell.
This Top Gear driving skill saved my life on more than one occasion, too.
You might remember how yet-to-be husband number two’s Corvette raced me away from point blank gunfire when we were carjacked in New Orleans.
And ski instructor Mike- fearless and good at everything- got us safely home from Aspen airport one night in a complete whiteout.
If you’ve never been in one, let me elaborate.
It happened fast.
One minute it was snowing lightly as my plane just barely made it in that night right before Sardy Field closed down completely.
The next minute- ZERO visibility. You couldn’t see one inch in front of the windshield, and the blinding headlights of the on-coming cars glinting off the snow only made it worse.
We couldn’t even see to pull over. There was no way to tell where the road ended and mountain fell away.
And yet I knew my guy would get me home safely.
He had been in much tighter jams than this (think two tours of duty flying helicopters in Viet Nam) and I knew his nerve, terrific hand-eye coordination and level head would save the day.
And it did.
You’re reading this, aren’t you?
But of all my husbands, there was one that stood out from the pack- automotively-speaking, that is.
My last one. The Kid.
The Kid was crazy about cars. And crazy about driving them at warp speed.
I was constantly going to traffic court (I had an attorney on retainer) watching helplessly as he was fined, suspended, re-instated, suspended again, re-fined, let off, all because of his need for speed.
He was fast and I was furious.
And my cars at that time didn’t make matters any easier. I had an Audi TT and an Audi A8 and they were catnip to that fast cat.
I loved my TT, btw. Lipstick red and the very first one in Colorado that was an automatic. (My ski-broken leg always made pushing in a clutch a pain in the tibia.)
Speeding Violation Sidebar: One night in Glencoe we got pulled over in the A8. For what else? Speeding, of course. I chewed him out so vehemently that the cop was impressed and didn’t cite him.
“Take it easy, sonny,” he said as he drove away. “Listen to your mother.”
Finally I was tired of the suspensions and the fines. I decided if you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.
As a birthday surprise, I flew us down to Braseltown, Georgia and enrolled him in the Panoz racing school.
For three days, The Kid drove race cars like the photograph above.
He spent countless hours on an obstacle course, snaking in and out of pylons, and learning the correct way to throw a skid and do a donut.
He took written tests, too, and I sat at rapt attention as former racing greats lectured the class on car safety- on and off the race course.
And, at the end of the course, the school held a race against the clock. All the students did some laps and then their times were compared.
They announced the winners at the graduation ceremony the last day.
And The Kid was valedictorian!
This mother was so proud.
Happy motoring.
So based on your past experience I would suggest anyone you date in the future only uses public transportation.
Or a bike. (Does Flexjet count as public transportation?) Thanks for the helpful hint, Jimmy.
Love your love of cars, Ellen. From the time I got my license, and maybe before, whatever car I got in, I had to find out how fast it could go. Once in high school, driving friends in my 1949 Woody to an away game I wasn’t in due to a sprained ankle, I passed the football bus at 110. Not much you say? The equivalent in a Ferrari would be over 200, and much safer. The more I learned about cars, from working on mine, mainly the English ones, the less I wanted to stretch the envelope, until now, with a car rev-limited at 150, I’m sure I’ll never take it up there. I still speed compulsively, (and am also very lucky) and it isn’t always a bad thing. Once, driving down the curves of a pass (San Bernardino?) from careful, perfect Switzerland to brains-on-the-table-crazy Italy, I noticed that, as soon as we got on the flat, the guy on the motorcycle next to me, with the girl on the back, wheelied and disappeared to a vanishing point far ahead of my rented BMW. Welcome to Italy! It wasn’t long before it became clear that tiny cars, driven with abandon, passing on cobbled village streets where only one car would fit, were engaging in a new kind of physics, and my careful driving was inappropriate. So I became Italian! And for the rest of the visit paid no attention to signs or sense of any kind. And it worked perfectly! By the time we returned to calm, precise Switzerland, we were definitely ready for cool, clean air and a lawn chair at a sanatorium.
Amore mio, tu sei fantastico di scrivere questo. Translation: I love you and do you wanna drag? When I lived in Florence, it was easy to see that ALL the drivers there were veramente pazzi.They thought if you actually stopped at a red light, you had no coglioni. I also have to pay homage to some of the cars in the Yager archive. The Tiger!! Love your style, bro.
67 Shelby GT 350. Awesome car for a teenager. We sold it for approx $1700 and it’s probably worth over $100K. But it needed new plugs 🙂
I’m too heartsick to reply coherently. Later, bro. (And a radio…)
I’d never “qualify”, as I don’t speed, am not reckless and don’t ski!
Herbie
Sad but true, Herbie. (And I think Sally might have something to say if you did…) thanks anyway, buddy.
Haven’t you heard of a fuzz buster…it has saved our butts countless times. If you drive long distanaces, and want to race against the clock, it let’s you know where the radar is approximately a mile and a half in advanace. It’s as important as an american express card …hence we never leave homw wwithout it.
The Kid was always buying new and improved versions. They helped but they weren’t fool proof. (I can only imagine he’d be license less for life without them. Thanks, Sherry. Good safety tip.