Short Trip, Long Journey

            My eldest son, Jake, could kick my butt at any driving video game out there.  But his first short stint behind the wheel of an actual car showed him just how different a pixilated car is from its non-virtual cousin.

            Jake’s been driving with me, of course, since the beginning.  I still remember how terrified I was on the trip home from the hospital.  I wanted to plaster our car with “Baby on Board” signs and have a police escort clear all the intersections.  Later, when he started enjoying Hot Wheels and other car toys, we began going for drives—first in my 1994 Camaro Z28, then in the 2001 Corvette that followed, and most recently in the 2005 GTO.  I’ve had a manual transmission all along, and Jake has progressed from placing a chubby little left hand under mine on the gearshift to actually changing the gears for me.

            The past few months, whenever I’m outside washing the car or working in the garage, Jake has begged to be allowed to move the car.  He’s sure he knows the drill of starting and moving the car, and will lay out the process step-by-step to prove it.  Regardless, I always say no.  Reciting the steps and doing the steps aren’t the same.  We let him start my wife’s auto-tranny SUV, but that’s a whole different deal.

            The other day, however, Jake got the jump on me.  He and I were going to go someplace on a weekend.  I was still putting my shoes on when he grabbed my keys and ran out the door into the garage.  I heard the garage door going up and thought I had at least a few seconds to finish tying my sneaker, but the boy was fast: I heard the GTO roar to life, then a screech, then nothing.

            I ran out the door and saw the car sitting about four feet rearward from where it had been parked, motor no longer running.  Jake was in the driver’s seat hanging onto the steering wheel, eyes wide, speechless.  I ran around the far side of the car to see if he’d come in contact with the edge of the garage opening.  No, but he was scant inches from it. 

Returning to the driver’s door, I tried to think of something to say.  I believe my first words were, “What the heck!?”

Jake finally started speaking, and the words tumbled out.  “I did everything right!  I put the clutch in and started it, but the car just jumped back!  I did everything right!  I didn’t give it any gas at all.  I don’t know what happened!”

It was then that I noticed the short skid marks ahead of each tire, and I put it together.  “Jake, did you move the seat forward before starting the car?”  He hadn’t.  Now, Jake’s tall for a 13-year-old, but not quite my height yet.  He simply hadn’t been able to keep his clutch foot all the way to the floor.  He may have lost focus, he may have wiggled or shifted—who knows?  But it was enough.  The GTO’s 400-horsepower engine doesn’t require any gas to get the car rolling—let up the clutch and it goes.  When it started backward, Jake panicked and braked, stalling the car.  “You just hit the brakes without putting in the clutch, didn’t you?” I asked.  Jake nodded.

When it comes to the boys and the doing of bad deeds, I’ve become much angrier over offenses that were far less grievous.  Considering this particular misstep involved my car, I’d have expected to be much more upset than I was.  As it happens, I mostly just felt relief that both Jake and the car were okay.  And the look that remained on Jake’s face told me that my yelling at him wouldn’t teach him anything he hadn’t already figured out for himself.  “You did the best thing you could’ve done, hitting the brakes like that,” I said.  Jake nodded, got out of the car, and walked inside.

That’s been a few weeks ago now, and he hasn’t pestered me for the keys once.

But he will.  That short trip inside the garage will become part of a longer journey, and we’ll write the next chapter in our driving history.

           

Confessions of a Coaster

            According to news reports, $4-a-gallon gas is radically changing my driving behavior.

            Within the past week, the talk radio station I listen to (as I commute in my 18-miles-a-gallon car) featured yet another “gas pains” story.  In this one, a dealer in electric cars was crowing about his long waiting list.  There were also the requisite sound bites from angry gas station customers explaining how they’re combining errands, carpooling and eliminating unnecessary trips.

The message is clear: like some petrochemical Black Plague, this bug is going to get all of us sooner or later.  We’re going to be different, and it’s just a matter of time.

It’s of grave concern, therefore, that I report some odd, uncharacteristic behavior behind the wheel of late.  Yes, it’s true:  I fear I’m coming down with this thing.  But before I describe this change, let’s talk about what’s not happening.

It’s not changing how I react to green traffic lights:  All too often, I’m still living The Secret Life of Walter “John Force” Mitty, imagining every light is a drag strip Christmas tree, every launch a test of my reaction time, every other driver a rival.

It’s not affecting my cornering.  As turns approach, I still fancy myself trailing Helio Castroneves into the final turn at the Long Beach Grand Prix, needing to trail-brake and execute a perfect heel-toe downshift in order to come out of the turn under power and pass Helio for the checkered flag.

It’s not stopping me from my occasional lunchtime Drives to Nowhere, taken solely for the way that a fun, engaging car rewards the senses.

Shoot—even a ticket the other day for doing 56 in a 45 didn’t change me.  Within an hour of being cited, I caught myself three times hitting speeds higher than I was ticketed for.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I don’t have a bottomless gasoline budget.  No one died and left me an oil well.  I don’t like spending 60 bucks for 15 gallons of premium unleaded any better than the next car guy.  To support my habit, I’m taking sack lunches to work every day and trying to spend less on other things.  Driving is just too fun, too essential a part of my day, to give up.

Still, I’m changing, and here’s how: When coming up on a red light, instead of just letting up on the gas and allowing the engine to help with the braking, I’m now actually taking my manual-transmissioned car out of gear and . . . coasting.

That’s right.  Hi, my name is Rob, and I’m a coaster.

I’m not sure exactly how things got this way.  At first it was just every once in a while, you know?  It seemed so harmless: Hey, there’s a red light ahead and I’m still kinda far away.  Wonder what my RPMs would be if I just popped it out of gear?  Wow!  They dropped from 2,000 to 400!

It was only a novelty until, curious, I checked the digital mileage calculator on the dash:  3,000 miles per gallon!

Okay, it wasn’t that high.  But close.

Then, as I contemplated the potential cumulative benefits of conserving all of those wasted RPMs by repeatedly rolling up to red lights with the engine disconnected from the wheels, it started happening more and more.  A quarter-mile of rolling here, an eighth-mile there, and pretty soon I was racking up some serious MWPs (Miles Without Power).

Even though I’m exhibiting this disturbing behavior, there is some consolation.  Call it “rationalizing” if you must, but the way I figure it, I can redeem all of these MWPs at the other end, see, when the light turns green.  One pays for the other, right?  Right?  Oh, c’mon someone—tell me I’m not in denial!

Ugh.  I sincerely hope I haven’t disillusioned anyone.