Relatively Fast (a non-political short story about the inherited need for speed)
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It's
easy to understand, during uncertain times like
these, why people would hark back to their youth;
to the happy, carefree moments and episodes enjoyed during that bygone era. After receiving a
number of pro-nostalgic comments on my
last commentary, I present a short story
from my childhood during this family-oriented holiday weekend.
Happy Easter and Happy Passover! I look
forward to reading your non-political comments. |
The AAA travel advisor was explaining to my father that
there was no posted speed limit on a particular stretch of
highway between the New York/Canada border and the outskirts of Montreal.
He had the TripTik right there on the desk in front of us
and he was drawing a see-through blue line over the very
page of the ring-bound roadmap that showed exactly where you could drive as fast as you
please.
This was the summer before second grade. It would be
my first-ever road trip. My parents were so proud of
our two-tone '55 Pontiac Chieftain V8 -- the first car my
city-dwelling, trolley, bus and subway-riding parents had
ever owned.
There would be nearly a month during which I could work on
my father prior to our week-long tour of the Adirondacks and
Quebec. My main goals were to make sure that there
would be no changing of the AAA route and that there would be no
excuses regarding the "opening up" of the Pontiac once we
reached the enchanted stretch of Canadian highway
highlighted on the TripTik.
My strategy was to talk matter-of-factly with Pop about the
upcoming trip. However, I was prevented from sticking
to my laid-back plan by the allure of unbridled speed. Instead, as you would expect of a seven-year-old, I just
kept showing Pop the map with the highlighted
road with no speed limit. My heart was on my sleeve but, remarkably, it seemed
that no harm had been done as a result of my childish
harping as the trip was about to begin.
As we motored out of Brooklyn through the brand new Battery
Tunnel the excitement began to build. Already my
mother was saying "Eugene, watch the speed" with regularity.
I sensed that when the magic moment arrives at the
border-crossing my father won't let me down.
We stopped in the Bronx to pick up Aunt Gladys and Uncle
Louie. But heading north on the New York Thruway with
my aunt, uncle and me sharing the back seat, my earlier
optimism began to fade. If there was to be a fly in
the ointment it would surely be my Uncle Louie.
As we traveled, Mom would frequently remind Pop -- quietly
and politely -- to watch his speed. Uncle Louie, on
the other hand, was a paranoid safety fanatic whose white
knuckles clutched the seat in front of him as he incessantly
implored my father to slow down. Arguments in
the multiple tongues of the Slovaki brothers raged
on for the next couple of days throughout the Lake
George-Adirondack region.
At last the dawning of that fateful day arrived. The
border-crossing leg of our journey would begin as soon as we
cleared out of the log cabin efficiency unit near Ausable
Chasm. The Chasm is New York's miniaturized version of
the Grand Canyon.
I
was worried about a potentially bad omen. On the rapids-ride portion of the previous day's Chasm excursion, Uncle
Louie and I were the only ones who volunteered to get into the
boat. Pop had chosen to stay behind with the ladies.
Nonetheless, Uncle Louie seemed to enjoy himself and he
didn't even stress over the soaking that his starched sport
shirt had taken out there in the white water.
While the trunk of the car was being loaded I finally broke
down and begged my mother to let me sit up front so I could
navigate us into Canada. As we cleared customs I
flipped that last New York page of the TripTik and
voila -- we were on the Quebec highway with no speed
limit!
Everything changed immediately, and not just because we were
in a foreign country. The sights and sounds of the
world rushing by us were, at once, both exhilarating and
peaceful. The tone of the Chieftain's engine went from
nice to nice-and-nasty. Scenery kept changing at
wondrous pace as Pop clipped along at 80-something.
Of course, Uncle Louie was having a shrieking panic attack
but this was not a good time for him to attempt to spoil our
fun. Even Mom was smiling as she watched the
speedometer needle point boldly at hither-to-fore unseen
numbers.
My father lifted slightly off the throttle, turned around
and issued an ultimatum to his brother in plain Engish: "Be
quiet and don't bother me or I will leave you here in
Quebec!"
Then, without further hesitation, Pop put the hammer down
and held it to the floor until the speedo registered
105 at the end of a long straightaway between two CN
Railroad grade crossings. The dream was fulfilled.
For the rest of that morning a sheepish Uncle Louie made only
one additional request: "Please pull over soon,
Eugene, I need to change my underwear."