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ATLANTIC HIGHLANDS HERALD |
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DRIVING, THEN AND NOW In recent weeks my wife and I have driven several thousand miles for a family wedding and some other family business. That traveling brought back some of my early driving experiences, and drew contrasts to today’s driving. I have loved cars and the American road since the 1950s. My Pop fixed cars for a living, so my brothers and I saw all kinds of cars in various stages of repair. We acquired some understanding of how cars work, got hands-on experience repairing them, and got to drive vehicles of every description and age. Sometimes we saw cars that had been in terrible wrecks. My brothers became accomplished mechanics, and even I gained some skills and knowledge. We all were college educated and had technical careers, but we still love cars, both old and new. My love affair with cars predated driving age. I was ten when my father brought home a gigantic limo-class Buick – a 1941 Limited model – that seemed a city block long. He bought it slightly damaged from a doctor who had a fender-bender while passing through town. The car looked as though the rear seat had rarely been used. It easily accommodated our family of five kids. We had grand times with that car. It was a sort of sleek pre-van (before the van had actually been invented). The guys from the Boy Scout troop called it “The Hearse”. The massive, powerful car’s body-joints were all sealed with lead, and the huge straight-eight engine featured serially linked dual carburetors. For economy, the first carb handled ordinary driving. At high speeds, or when the accelerator was punched, the second one kicked in for extra power. It was impressive when the huge car surged forward from 60 or 65 when that second carburetor engaged. The Buick seemed indestructible, but one day in 1955 my mother crumpled a front fender when she struck another car whose driver had run a stop sign. The accident was actually a financial godsend because Pop and his long-time friend and colleague had just started their own business. The car my mother hit became their first repair job. (She got a lot of kidding about generating business for the new shop.) But the Buick was crunched. Pop was far too busy to spend valuable time on it. He bought a replacement car and parked the banged-up Buick on the shop’s back lot. We kids wouldn’t let it go, however. We pleaded for the Buick’s repair, and being a soft-hearted guy, Pop called junkyards all over Pennsylvania to find a fender – already rare in 1955. One cold December evening we drove to a remote parts-yard to retrieve the massive thing. (It must have weighed 150 pounds.) The Buick was restored to operating condition and launched into an extended lifetime with several members of the family – far outliving Pop, who died in 1969. People were always phoning Pop, trying to sell him cars. One day, just after I finished high school, I was at the shop pulling radiators out of cars for repair. (Radiator repair was Pop’s specialty.) He gestured and said, “Come on, we’re going into town to buy a car.” At the designated address we found a family of grown children gathered glumly round the table, as families do when someone has died. But there hadn’t been a death. They were sad because their family car, since 1938, was going. (I could identify.) It was a ’38 Plymouth – 22 years old and a little worn, but drivable. We paid $20 for it. You sat up high in the car. The three-foot long shifter was mounted in the floor next to the driver. I wasn’t very practiced in stick-shift yet, so Pop showed me the gears and how to operate the clutch. I lurched away into traffic. I drove the old Plymouth all over New York State during two years of college. Once, it was so cold that the antifreeze turned to slush and the engine overheated. I left the car there and returned a week later to get it running. It used oil copiously, so I carried a large can of it in the trunk. When I got married, I gave the car to my brother. Al disbelieved the oil gauge and promptly ran the engine dry of oil. The bearings burned up and the pistons seized in a cloud of smoke. Al found a ’37 Dodge which he drove until he wrecked the front end one rainy day. My forlorn ’38 with the burned-up engine gave up its fenders, grill and hood to fix Al’s car. By then an accomplished mechanic, Al dropped a modern Pontiac V-8 into his early hybrid and drove it (at alarming speeds) back and forth to college in the late ‘60s. Finally, short of funds, he sold his rod to a classmate. Only memories remained of the old Plymouth-Dodge. Soon afterward Al resurrected the Buick and drove it all over the country in 1970 while gas was still 25 cents a gallon. (One of the projects on my retirement list is to find a restored ’38 Plymouth.) Driving has changed since 1960, when Pop and I bought the Plymouth. My driving instructor drilled me on parallel parking and the three-point turn, as the test specifically addressed both maneuvers. I practiced them for hours. Today, suburban drivers rarely use them. I doubt if they are even tested any longer in Northern Virginia, where we live. The three-pointer lets you reverse the car’s direction in a narrow space with three tight turns – forward, reverse, and forward again – without bumping the curb. The maneuver requires the driver to have complete control of the vehicle and an accurate sense of its size. How the turn is executed tells the examiner a lot about the driver’s level of skill and comfort with the vehicle. Another part of driving that has changed – not necessarily for the better – is highway passing. The multi-lane superhighway was rare in the ‘50s, so passing was taught with the two-lane road in mind. We learned to accelerate and pass quickly on such a road – never lingering next to the other vehicle or meandering by at the speed limit. The danger of driving in the opposing lane made the speed limit a secondary concern. You passed and got back in your proper lane without delay. Today, the multi-lane highway has eroded the technique of passing in several respects. First, the concept of the “passing lane” – enabled by multiple lanes – is all but lost. The left-most lane on a multi-lane highway is supposedly reserved for passing. But “boulevard driving” has conditioned drivers to occupy any lane at any time, at whatever speed they choose, without any concern for drivers wishing to pass. The “passing-lane cruiser”, driving at the speed limit (or less), followed by a line of would-be passers, is a common sight on the modern superhighway. In my experience, that driver is sometimes a policeman. The second major erosion of passing derives from the energy-crisis era’s emphasis on low-speed driving. Starting in the mid-1970s, and well into the ‘80s, highway speed was federally limited to 55 mph – even on roads built for much higher speeds. This is no longer true, but many motorists retain that era’s misconception that the speed limit cannot be exceeded under any circumstances. My era’s understanding that you pass as quickly as possible has morphed into a slavish concern for the speed limit, to the neglect of all other considerations. This has produced the dangerous practice of low-speed-differential passing – e.g., where a car traveling 65 mph. passes a car or truck traveling 64 mph. The 1 mph. differential equals 1.5 feet/second. At that differential speed it takes 46 seconds to pass a 70-foot-long truck. By focusing on the speed limit, the passing driver ignores the risk of driving alongside a truck for all that time. One twitch from one of those monsters will send him off the road and into oblivion. The long line of cars and trucks following the slow passer is also very dangerous. Often I see (or am part of) a clump of dozens of vehicles – all following much too closely in a pack for ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes – trailing a speed-limit passer on his maddening, cruise-controlled way. Wild maneuvers by frustrated drivers trying to get past him magnify the risk. Trucks often do low-speed-differential passing, too. This is particularly trying when one truck passes another on an upgrade – both driving well under the speed limit. Some states deny the left lane to trucks, but this is rare. I am sensitive to the danger posed by trucks and try to stay away from them. A friend’s niece was severely injured recently when a tractor-trailer rig crossed the median and collided with her car. I always minimize the time I spend next to another vehicle. To pass, I increase my speed by 5 or 10 mph., resuming my regular speed after passing. If I overtake a slow-passer, I usually flick my lights once to let him know I am there. Usually, he completes his pass quickly and lets me go by, but not always. Sometimes I have to wait until he crawls past the other vehicles. The durability of cars has changed since I started driving. Today it is common to see a ’64 or ’65 Mustang on the road. That’s a 40-year-old car! In the ‘60s you didn’t see many cars that age. Worn-out 1920s cars had been turned into scrap long before. Engine durability has increased because of advances in metallurgy and design. Valves don’t burn the way they used to. Cooling systems are better. Rings and pistons are far more durable. I drove a 1984 Celica 216,000 miles, taking care only to change the oil regularly. The power train was never touched. It still ran perfectly and had the original cloth top when I sold it in 2000. In the 1950s you could expect major engine repairs by 100,000 miles. We truly live in a blessed time from the standpoint of car reliability, power, safety and economy. Our family sedan’s V-6 sips gas but gives me any speed I need. It’s a long way from the ’38 Plymouth with the 5-gallon can of oil in the trunk. Still, those were the days…
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