My dad still likes to drag-race

Saturday 21 November 2009

Depending on what car he is driving, my dad likes to drive fast. I don't mean he drives ridiculously fast, like it's unsafe. He just has a habit of going a little more than the posted limits. He says a higher average speed keeps up his times... as though he's racing.

Actually at one time my dad did get a sports-car-racing licence. It has long since elapsed, since he no longer logs any time on race tracks (unlike my uncle who races frequently up in Pennsylvania). But he always says it is one of two reasons why he looks at every driving situation like he would look at a race. He has these sayings, like 'Lane selection is key' and 'Check six for challenges', things like that. The whole purpose of driving for him is to get where you're going as quickly and safely as possible. He says, 'A good race is when you arrive at the finish line alive. A great race is when they can use the car again someday.' The other reason is that he grew up learning to drive when they had the 55-MPH speed limits, which truckers hated because it meant they could not legally average a mile a minute. So like the truckers my dad learned to push the limits a little-- which, yes, kind of made the 55-MPH speed limit sort of ineffective.

We were out this morning in the '65 Wildcat convertible, going up to the music store in Salisbury and on the way home, trying to get back for my all-call at 6.00, we found ourselves in the middle lane needing to get over to the right. And on our right was a 1968 Dodge Charger being driven by a girl-- young woman-- not much older than me, about 21 maybe, with bushy curly dark hair and pretty dark eyes-- Italian-looking, very pretty. I wondered how she had got such an exquisite old car-- it was deep maroon with a black top such as they had then and gleaming chrome wheels, very pretty like herself actually. Maybe it was her father's and he had let her drive it-- unlike my dad who won't let me close to the driver's seat on any of his! Anyway she had a stick shift-- we could hear her going through gears. I sort of envied her.

Daddy ran up through second upon leaving the traffic light. There were cars everywhere-- the mild weather had brought people out for shopping and just plain cruising. And a lot were classic cars-- part of the reason Daddy wanted to take the Wildcat on this trip, you know. And maybe it was why this lucky girl had stolen a chance to drive her daddy's Dodge Charger. She was accelerating mildly out of the traffic light and we pulled even with her. Daddy needed to get over to her lane for an upcoming turn and wound second out a little higher. That big Buick engine ran up and the exhaust growled. The girl, whom I could see now was not alone in the car, heard it and accelerated a little harder too. Daddy laughed.

'I think we're going to miss our exit,' he said, and leaned harder on the throttle.

The girl did too. The nose of the Charger pulled even with the nose of the Buick. Suddenly her whole car rocked back-- she had floored it.

Daddy floored it. 'Uh-oh,' he said, 'there goes the six-pack.'

'The what?' But I was shoved back into the seat with the acceleration then. Both of us roared off up the highway, fifty, sixty-- Daddy shifted to third-- seventy, nearly eighty when Daddy put it into fourth and let the girl go. The big Buick settled in at about 80 for a few moments and then he backed off. Fortunately the girl had made her point for she settled in just ahead of us as we glided into the right lane for the next exit. I knew that under any other circumstances Daddy would have run any guy about his age through 100 or so, whatever the two cars would take. But he was feeling a little protective of the girl in the Charger-- she was only some good man's daughter, as he likes to say, and it would look awful if he were the one who incited her to some horrific accident. If she would not know any better, he would, you know.

Nevertheless he went in to the exit ramp with the big wide tyres whining a little and proceeded to drive us home a little faster the whole way. I know he thinks fondly on the days when he had his first 1965 Wildcat and used to cruise the Boulevard on Long Beach Island with it all summer, attracting girls and the envy of boys as well. I know he got this second Wildcat and had it painted like the first just to relive, even a little, those days of teenaged glory. And I know he thinks Jessy and I find it a little immature, and he probably thinks Mother does too-- but, the thing is, we don't. We find it just one more part of him. You see, my dad has always been 'cool', not in the immature, irrational way like some young guys imagine they are 'cool'. My dad has always been sensible, rational, intelligent, you know, but there is a small slice of him that likes to look good in all situations. In the '80s he was noted as a fashion plate in rock-and-roll. He had the hair and the clothes and the guitars and was seen in places the average rocker was not-- Sotheby's auction, the National Trust sites, art museums and classical-music concerts and at the ballet. He paid attention to his widowed mother and participated in family functions. He hosted (conservative) politicians at his big place up in Menlo Park and gave to charities. He was seen with a number of young women, in New Jersey, New York, and London, where he tended to work in those days. And he made people's careers, not merely as a 'fashion plate' but as someone whose attention and concern-- almost as a father's-- made the difference between a young star making a stupid decision and a young star moving forward like a responsible professional. I never mention names-- not even my own here-- but if I were to, you would be surprised at who he has known and what he has done for them.

In many ways my dad is my hero. There are a few things about him I would not like to see in anyone who would become my husband-- he is very sloppy about clothes, procrastinates little things because of working on big things, spends too much time by himself and overtalks literature, music, art and philosophy, all of which my dear stepmother, who once adored him as a favourite teacher, has found out about him since she married him. But in most important things he is my role model for a man. He is naturally happy, optimistic, encouraging. He is artistic, creative, intelligent-- really a genius. He is warm, thoughtful, generous, affectionate. He is careful and logical, not prone to making stupid decisions for selfish reasons. And he is truly concerned about the welfare of the world, from the healthcare plan to the first club show of the newest starving future singing star.

And he drives the coolest metallic-blue 1965 Buick Wildcat convertible known to mankind, a car that will probably become mine some day (or J.J.'s) because it would never, ever be sold by Daddy or anyone else, if only because it reminds us all of what Daddy is-- a man who sees no great period of time between when he was 20 and when he was 50, because in all that time he has only ever been the same person through and through. He has matured and grown older, but he has remained the same in what really matters.

People have asked me if this is some weird Oedipus complex, and I can only say I don't know. First I have to ask, is there any reason my dad should NOT be my role model? Is there any reason I should not want to keep him company on a ride to the music store? Is there any reason why I should not ask him my most personal questions and then take his advice? Is there any reason why I should not admire him?

And then those people will ask me, if he were not my father, would I want to date him?

Well, maybe if he were still 20. [ha]

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