Stupid, Dangerous, Awesome: The Times We Almost Bought It
4 Comments Published by Joel November 13th, 2006 in Cars. Share This
My orthodontist, a kind man with a sense of humor so infectious that he was a regular on a local morning talk radio hour, had parked my dream car in his office lot: a last generation twin-turbo Toyota Supra. My best friend spotted it from the highway and we veered in to check it out, having nothing better to do that day than to look at a car we could never afford. Maybe he’d let us sit inside and flip the switches.
“If you wash it and wax it you can take it out.” Before it had really set in, we were pulling out onto the highway in a 320-horsepower sports car, heading immediately towards the interstate, breaking out the back-end at every stoplight.
I passed a semi on the shoulder at 140. I banged against the governor at what I presume was 168—the car’s restricted top-end speed—although I was too frightened to take my eyes from the road to look at the speedometer.
Amazingly, no police were patrolling that extremely busy stretch of I-70. I exited and reentered the interstate to head back to my suburb; we still had to wash and wax the car and had only an hour left. The five miles we had travelled at top speed seemed to go by in slow motion as we cruised in return.
We pulled off onto a major cross-street, puttering at a lazy 70 MPH or so, when we saw a friend drive in the opposite lane, his face falling in obvious awe. I had to show him what the car could do, so I punched it.
Mistake.
The time between when I hit the accelerator and when I saw the truck was negligible. Unfortunately, the distance was even less so. If I hit the brakes we wouldn’t stop in time; if I swerved we’d go off the sculpted embankment.
I’m still not sure how I did what I did. For years my best friend—who is now a dedicated amateur racer and the most skilled driver I know—swore I was his equal behind the wheel just because of this one maneuver, which took less than five seconds from conception to sweaty-palmed resolution.
I turned and gunned it. The Supra, which had been squirrely with torque at low speeds, went sideways but gripped enough to push to the right, towards the sloping parking lot entrance the truck had been darting across to reach. We nosed in front of the truck diagonally, now pointed downhill at the pillars of the entryway of the Blue Ridge Bank. I swerved back to the left, turning the Supra almost all the way around to face the truck. As the truck squealed to a halt in the middle of the road, we drifted sideways between the bank building and a steel dumpster.
Now we were sliding towards more concrete curbs leading away from the drive-through lanes on the back side of the bank, but as luck held we were facing the exit from the parking lot in the right direction. I gave it one last blip, causing the rear end to shudder against the slide as the tires pushed us towards the inclined exit. With a final fishtail we were back on the street, blowing through a red light with no oncoming traffic.
We returned the Supra barely wet and laughably waxed. My friend ran inside to return the keys while I wiped brake dust off the wheels.
It was the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done in a car and was the start of my transformation into a safe, plodding automobile pilot. I don’t want to think of how many times I should have died.
It ruled.
Where to begin. Mostly mine are just “stupid” mixed with dangerous.
1988 Ford Ranger, 2WD, manual transmission, 4 speed with overdrive. Lovely truck for a teenager but completely and totally underpowered. I’d hit the bottom of long hills outside of Rolla at 80 MPH and finish at the top at maybe 40 MPH.
So, Woodsy and I were on way to a HS track meet at some podunk town around KC (Orrick, Cass-Midway, etc) and I am car #2 in a long chain behind farm-truck-slowing-everyone-the-fuck-down on a 2 lane highway. Solid lines change to stripped and it’s clear so I go. Slip out into oncoming traffic, drop down a gear and punch it.
Ahead, I see it. A car rolling up to a stop sign. Even at that distance, I knew the blinker would be on and there they go, making a right. I’ve already floored it, the cavalcade of cars has already filled our spot in so slipping back in is not an option. “Oh crap,” I mutter. Click, click radio and fan are off and it’s just us staring at the oncoming doom. We’re about parallel with the driver of the truck and I’ll be damned if he isn’t speeding up. We start beating on the truck and yelling encouragement and hell, maybe he backed off, I don’t know. I do know that we got in front of that truck with not a moment to spare.
Other stupid stuff that is less wordy?
Backpacking solo in the mountains of Wyoming, standing on top of a rocky plateau watching a thunderstorm rolling in. Hmmm, I’m the tallest thing around here and this fishing pole extending out of my backpack sure isn’t going to help matters. But if I run for the tree line, I’m going to risk breaking a leg and who knows if anyone will find me. Electrocution or broken bones and becoming bear food? I risked the broken bones
Witnessed half a scout troop daring each other to see who would stand outside in an open field the longest with varrying length of tent poles extended toward the sky in yet another lightning storm.
Yet another solo hike, at least this time I’d have died within Missouri but the trail split and I took the lower fork. The trail ended at the base of a waterfall. I wanted to see the view from the top but was too lazy to hike back up to the top so I climbed on up. Left my gear at the bottom so I had to climb back down and finished the final 15, 20 feet accelerating toward the earth at 9.8 m/s^2. Moss + a nagging horsefly are not a good combo to focus on. Blessedly, no injuries.
Rode in the back of a pickup truck while seated on a tire while redneck driver was off roading. Sort of like bumper cars but not.
Yet another redneck adventure. Alcohol + late 70s era F150 with railroad tie bumper/brush guard + 5 people in the front bench seat + 3 loaded rifles (to get the deer before the poacher get ‘em) + night time offroading.
Plenty of others but those are my initial stories.
Another automotive:
Me: ‘65 Mustang. Black. 289 engine. (almost) fully restored.
I topped a hill at a stately 60-65mph, seeing a car in front of me. .2 nanoseconds later I realize that this car is stopped in the road in front of me. No brake lights. No blinker. Brake. Brake harder. Brakes lock up, I skid slightly askew. I hit the stopped car at about 5mph and my car rolls into the other lane and stalls.
At this point I see why the car was stopped. They were waiting to turn left into their driveway. Waiting for the log truck to pass.
The last thing I remember was going “oh, shi-” as I reached for the keys and the log truck plows into me head-on.
A few days later, battered and bruised, wearing a neck brace, I visited the scene. On one side of the road, pieces of my dead Mustang. On the other side of the road, pieces of engine block and a couple of pistons from the MAC truck.
They don’t make ‘em like that Mustang anymore.
We were hiking just oitside Pai in Northern Thailand. It was raining but swelteringly hot. The local guide had promised he would take us to a spectacular waterfall. And he wasnt wrong. It was 3 pools, with a 100ft drop ito the first one, then a 20ft chute and 20foot drop out of that one into a small splashpool which overflowed off another 10foot drop into a chote that carried the water away. Heaven!
We made it up to the top pool easy enough, it was like being in a cavern. sheer rock walls on three sides and a surprisingly shallow pool with a sandy bottom. We swam got as close to the high falling water as we dared, drank a beer. then after a while we decided to head back.
I should have put my shoes back on. Bare feet do not grip well on smooth wet rock.
As I was inching down the rock at the side of the fast flowing debris filled water shoot, i slipped. But caught myself. I put my shoes down and my bag and gingerly got to my feet. Then I slipped again. This time in slow motion. I could see it all so perfectly. I was sliding into the chute feet first. OH SHIT! In I went, thinking this was it I was going to be ripped to shreds by the debris I was rushing towards, then dashed to pieces on the rocks below. I gritted my teeth for impact as I crashed through the branches and twigs and hurtled off the lip of the chute. Freefall…
I landed with a spash in the pool below. And went under. Next thing I know Im bobbing on the surface. Alive! There were no rocks. The chute was not blocked with heavy debris, I had cleared it all out! the guys I was hiking with where shouting. They thought I was a gonner! I swam to the edge hawled myself out and shouted out that I was ok. Then I thought I better go get my bag as it had all my money and my passport in it. I clambered back up to wher I had lost my footing. Picked up my bag. Then lost my footing AGAIN. Back into the chute! This time with my bag and my shoes! That time I discovered that It wasn’t at all dangerous.
I just THOUGHT I was gonna die.
;)
I don’t know how the hell I missed this piece. I honestly believe that the aformentioned trip sparked the beginning of my obsession with high horsepower, turbocharged Japanese “muscle cars”.
I will never forget what I will forever refer to as, “The Move”. Every time I drive by Blue Ridge Bank I think about it. That still is one of the finest pieces of driving I have ever witnessed. I’ve never seen it’s equal. Thanks for the trip down memory lane Joel, it was a pleasure being your co-pilot.
On that note, I leave you with this:
“Well, if you’d driven the cars that _I’VE_ driven… *burn-out*”
Buwhahahahahahah! Best. Ever.