California Car Culture (or...'How I survived driving fast cars & building hot rods'–– luckily "a voice" saved me on Highway 101!).

https://www.hagerty.com/valuation-tools/packard/caribbean/1956/1956-packard-caribbean

(Note: me driving V12 Caddie, shown on back cover of 12 DEAD FROGS and other Stories––a Filmmaker's Memoir.

UNLEASHING THE HORSES (1960)

When I got my driving license at age 16 it felt like I’d sprouted new wings of freedom. In Chicago, I had once traveled alone to the faraway Riverview amusement park, which required riding an IC train downtown eight miles to the Loop, then boarding a bus for a hundred blocks, transferring to a second one for another couple hundred blocks before finally arriving at my destination. I wasn’t much past 12 then, but I met my needs for exploration. So suddenly, with a driver’s license in hand, it was just like in my earlier childhood. I could again travel to the far reaches of my known universe. But some serious, high-speed dangers lay ahead.

The first car I drove was my parent’s 1956 Buick Century sedan, “a very well-made and safe car” they informed me. They didn’t go out of their way to also explain how fast it was. On my way to a party one evening, after picking up five friends, I cranked the Buick up to about 100 miles per hour, traveling south down highway 101 toward the party. Because of the great suspension and superior horsepower, it didn’t seem all that fast. So I edged it up a bit more. I watched the speedometer rising; 105...110...115. Finally, I hit 120 miles per hour. We whizzed along to everyone’s joy, my young riders totally exhilarated. The problem came at the next bend in the highway.

In a long sweeping curve, somewhere along the ocean, I started to feel the car sliding out of its lane. If the car next to me on the right hadn’t bailed out, hit the gravel shoulder as I began sliding, it probably would have been scraped or worse by my car. I don’t think that my occupants were screaming, but the interior of my cab suddenly became very loud, so much so that it just registered as a weird roar in my ears. Suddenly, though, things quieted down in my mind. It was as if I’d been magically transported into a recording studio that could muffle reality. In that quiet head-space moment, I remember hearing a voice, which stated clearly and emphatically, “Don’t over-correct!”

As the car snapped back left, out of its spinout, I followed the mental command and turned the steering wheel about half as much as I imagined it needed. A split-second later, the car careened left, just missing the dangerous raised highway curb that, if caught with tires, would have most probably sent us flipping end over end down the road. Instead, the car suddenly straightened out and shot straight down the road again, correctly positioned in the left-side passing lane.

At the party, my five friends and I pretty much just sat there shaking for about a half-hour. Then we excused ourselves when all agreed we wanted to go home. I was a meek and careful driver the remainder of that evening.

V-12 CADILLAC (1960)

Later in 1960, at the beginning of summer, after much begging and pleading on my part, my mother helped me purchase my first car. I finally convinced her to loan me the $200 I needed to purchase the 1937 V-12 custom body Cadillac roadster a friend was selling. At the time, my father was away in Chicago finishing up his archaeological work while Mom remained in California. At the time I opted to buy that car, all my other friends had equally older cars. Some vehicles they drove; 1932 Ford Roadster with rumble seat, 1937 Packard convertible, an early Jaguar sedan, and a (somewhat beat-up) 1948 Chevy. When I was pulled over one time by a California Highway patrolman, for going 100 miles per hour in my V-12 (Highway 101, outside of Goleta), he cancelled writing me a speeding ticket, in exchange (he said) for just “taking a look under the hood.” California car culture in movies like American Graffiti was true for us. Everyone had a cool older car (and tested their speed on nearby roads/highways)!

Unfortunately, my father was very disappointed that he had missed the chance to buy me my first car. Who knew he felt that way, wanted to share that event with me? Although I had worked a month and a half that summer to pay back the loan, there was no good resolution to the car issue. By the time he did get to buy me a “dependable” car a couple of years later – a 1958 “police special” Plymouth sedan with two 4-barrel carbs – I had accumulated a nice little collection of older project-cars in the driveway, which contributed to further problems between my parents (See ahead—why my mother was desperate to get me away to college!).

NO MECHANIC (1961)

One time, when I was around 17, I was out on our circular driveway fiddling with one of my old car projects, when a new-looking, brown Chrysler sedan came puttering up our driveway from the gate, its engine dying as it came to an abrupt halt near the front walkway. The driver was an exceedingly attractive woman, dressed in grey suit like a stockbroker – white shirt, and red silk tie – with her neatly groomed brown hair and perfectly applied makeup. She said that she had been having engine problems. Could I help? You bet!

I eagerly offered to check things out, so she popped the hood. Peering in, I saw nothing immediately wrong, but figured that I should begin by examining her distributor cap and rotor. Considering that I had experienced rebuilding three engines by that point, I could certainly handle opening up her distributor cap and doing a visual check on the clearances. If I found something wrong there I might be able to fix it pretty easily. But right after I snapped the locks on the cap I heard my father calling out from somewhere off beyond the hot engine compartment. Pulling my head away from the greasy, smoky hood-space, back into the California sunlight, I saw him give a command.

“Get away from that car,” he ordered, my 64- year-old father standing unsteadily on the driveway’s incline about 30 feet away, adding,“You’re not a mechanic!”

He appeared to be slightly inebriated. When he realized that I wasn’t immediately doing as ordered he added, “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing!”

For some reason, I took all this humorously. Maybe that was because he seemed so slight in build and fragile (he was short man, 5’ 2”, thin build, while I was reaching 6’ and stocky). I was actually worried that he might fall and hurt himself. At any rate, I kept my mouth shut, and glanced down at the young woman in the driver’s seat. She didn’t seem at all put off by the embarrassing spectacle. She just wanted me to continue fixing her car. With an intense, pleading look, and some allure thrown in, she urged me to keep at it.

When my father finally gave up and headed slowly back uphill, I lifted the distributor cap and noticed that an odd little screw had gotten loose in there. I removed it, re-clamped the lid and told her to give it a crank. The car started up on the next try, and the lovely woman thanked me profusely as she backed out of the driveway.

SECRET SERVICE (1962)

I would never have made it to college if my mother hadn’t worked so hard, in secret, to get me admitted. That summer after high school graduation, I had told my friends that I would just screw around until I got drafted, or something. Or else I’d join the Marines. I had admired an older friend who looked so physically fit after Marine boot camp – he carried on proudly about “being a man.” Little did I or any of us know then, what lay ahead in Vietnam. College hadn’t seemed to be an option, considering that my grades were decidedly sub-standard, somewhere in the C- zone.

At any rate, my mother had applied to college for me, in my name, without telling me anything about it. I never asked her how she did it, but I’ve wondered lately if she went so far as fabricating the written essay portions of the college applications she sent out on my behalf; “Why I (Rick) want to attend University of __________.”

One day in August, 1962, she announced that I was going to the University of Arizona in a month (“What?” I asked. “How?”). She then accompanied me to a men’s store and outfitted me with a bunch of white shirts, dark slacks, suit coat, underwear and socks, new shoes, a belt and some hankies. In spite of myself, I was going to college.

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