Notes on Days and Nights with Motor Vehicles

I remember riding my motorcycle on a summer day, and getting caught in a downpour.
I had been rain-soaked to the bone a number of times before, but this day was singularly unique; the rain drops hit my chest so hard they seemed to pass right through me.
If I had it to do all over again I would have to since I could not have had any idea it was going to rain. Not that day. Not that hard anyway.

I’ve forgotten the day I was born. But I remember a scoutmaster that used to hypnotize us.
He told us that, while under, it was possible to rewatch a movie we’d seen before in a matter of seconds.
I wanted to see “Grand Prix” again, starring James Garner.
My scoutmaster was right, I saw the entire film in vivid technicolor while under his spell.
In hindsight, that was a horrible activity for a scoutmaster to do with his troop.

I once had a car that, to get into reverse, I had to crawl underneath it and move a shift linkage lever on the transmission.
That didn’t seem like too much of an inconvenience to me until the day I needed to back out of a parking spot covered in 4″ of wintery slush.
I had an ongoing love/hate relationship with that car — always searching for a parking spot where I could pull straight through.

There is nothing to help you forget a less than memorable day than a really memorable night.
As a teenager, I had the brilliant idea to sneak into the drive-in theater. I made my way around the side of the theater and through the lot of the local Pontiac dealership. I was distracted by an open window in the back of the garage. I didn’t want to go through that window or anything, I just was curious to take a peek.
Unfortunately, earlier that week I had found a curious piece of broken glass and had slipped it into my jacket pocket.
When the police suddenly showed up and I was taken with my accomplices to the station for questioning and to be fingerprinted. I was as surprised as the cop when I removed my fidgeting fingers from my pocket, covered in blood.

Some days are such a relief. For the better part of 1975 I drove a ’70 Pontiac Grand Safari station wagon.
The state roads in southeastern Arizona are long and straight. Just the sort of roads that turn a young man’s heart from his best girl to how fast his car could go.
Soon the needle on the speedometer was, as we used to say, buried. For the first and only time the line from the song “Hot Rod Lincoln” by Commander Cody, “telephone poles looked like a picket fence,” made sense to me.
With the little town of Safford just around the bend and no clear indication of how fast I was going except that it was over 120 mph, I took my foot off the gas.
Just past the city limit sign, flashing lights appeared in my rear view mirror. Something told me this long-haired kid was going to jail.
I never smiled so widely at a state trooper as when this one told me I was going to have to follow him to the station to pay the ticket for “going 75 in a 55.”

Fast or slow, wet or dry, it all comes out in the wash as long as you sort properly.

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