You rang.
Now there’s something that would have been perfect for the “Tell me you’re a Doper without…” thread. 
I said sturdy, not saucy.
I’ve never met a saucy wrench before. It’s nice to meet you!
Sure, make light of my suffering because of a homophone.
(insert gay hotline reference here)
How about us old wenches? 
Wenches, wenches everywhere! LOL
It’s nice to meet you too!
Careful, you’ll wrench your back!
I knew a woman who’d walk on my back.
It could use a good wenching right now…
I was 17 and driving my dad’s car through a suburban neighborhood at about 35 mph (or 25 mph, whatever the posted speed limit was). My friend says, “Hold that speed.” He opens the passenger door, climbs out of the car and onto the hood. While I’m driving.
Another time (same era) I climbed onto the roof of a car while it was stopped at the curb, and my friend got in and started driving before I had a chance to get down. I’m just glad I had the arm span and a strong enough grip to hold on to the top of the doors. I’m also glad my friend didn’t stop suddenly.
Nice to meet you all too!
Bullitt - A wench can be both saucy and sturdy. 
Shame it’s not Talk Like A Pirate Day.
That’s always fun. How about a pirate joke instead…
What is a pirate’s favorite letter?
R? Additional letters
You would think it’s the ‘RRR,’ but it’s actually the ‘C.’
There’s a big bridge in my area that, when heading in a certain direction, as soon as you get over the top of it you have an unobstructed view of the next mile+ of road. If there’s any traffic or a speed trap, you’ll be able to see if from here. Now, I know doing this is a very common thing, but I can’t believe how often 16 year old me got well over a 100mph on that stretch of road. Including in an Econoline van. I remember my parents minivan had a speed limiter that would cut off the engine above a certain speed (90? 100?).
Heh, not me, but I remember a friend of mine named Bryan once told Marty to hold the wheel, then told him to put his foot on the gas. Before Marty knew it, Bryan had disappeared out of his window at around 65 going down the freeway. Next, Bryan was climbing in Marty’s window, telling him to move over to the driver’s seat after climbing over the roof of the car. Knowing these two guys, it’s a totally believable story. I was completely surprised to know they were still alive 10 years after graduating high school, that’s the last time I saw either of them.
On the way to school from Grand Prairie into Arlington, TX. we’d take Green Oaks. West of its intersection with Ascension Blvd., it’s a pretty large hill for Texas. You have similar visibility, but there’s a curve about a 1/4 mile ahead. So, on the way to school each day I would see how fast I could get the purple metal flake Ranchero after leaving the stoplight at Ascension before I lost my nerve and had to get on the binders to make the curve at the bottom of the hill. On normal mornings, we’d hit 112-114 MPH or so. I do know that one morning I got to 117, and I’d be kind of sad and inclined to tune the engine if we didn’t make 110.
So, 100+ on any morning ending in Y that was a school day for more than a year, on a surface street. If I didn’t make the turn at the bottom of the hill, I was most likely to roll in a crash into some woods on the outside of the curve. But if I kind of had a loony almost save of not making the turn, I may have catapulted into the inside of the curve, into a residential area. Fortunately, I never hit that curve at a speed the Ranchero would either push or slide. Discretion was apparently the better part of valor, even for 16 year old me. Even then, it was stupid in the extreme in a manner I think only a teenage boy is likely to manage.
In college I drank and partied quite a bit. UCSB. Santa Barbara. The University of California full of Sexy Blondes. My beer of choice was cheap and strong, Mickey’s Malt Liquor in the wide mouth green bottles. I could chug those down quickly. I would count how many beers I’d had, to make sure I wouldn’t try driving if I’d had too many.
My threshold, the number of beers I’d drunken, beyond which I should not drive, was 16 beers.
Seriously. 16 beers. I was young and strong then. Good looking, even (haha!). In my early 20s. And even on 10-12 beers in a night I would drive. I remember that I’d drive slowly and carefully, but not too slowly as to attract undue attention from any police that might be around. But I felt like I was still in control and the car was not swerving or weaving down the road. But once I’d get into drinking my 18th or 20th beer in a night, I knew I’d passed my limit and would not allow myself to try driving anywhere. So yeah, up to 16 beers and I would still drive.
16 beers! Just craaazy.
In my early twenties I remember stopping on Fridays to buy a case of beer on my way home. The beer I drank wasn’t in twist offs, so the guy always asked how many bottles I wanted opened for the drive.
It’s amazing we survived our youth.
Your story sounds like an experience I had several years ago, but in reverse. I had traveled to Iowa City to get up to speed on a project that my boss had thrown me onto to help out another development team. I was only planning on spending two days there (and packed accordingly) but it stretched to three. Then the day I was supposed to head home, a major snowstorm hit Iowa. I had to decide if I was going to stay or go. I discovered that there were other people from my office back home who were there for meetings for their project, and they decided to brave the storm, so I decided to caravan with them.
It took us about six hours in a blinding blizzard to get from Iowa City to Des Moines. Cars and semis littered the shoulder. It was white-knuckle driving all the way. Once we hit Des Moines and headed south on I-35, the weather started to clear up and the rest of the drive was uneventful. But holy crap I would NOT make that decision again.