I’m waiting for armageddon so that the post-apocalyptic universe portrayed in “Car Wars” can emerge and I can at last drive the way humans were meant to drive. With a surplus tank gun mounted in the bed of one’s pickup.
I am just going to RULE the Long Island Expressway.
That must be where my father got it. At some point when I was learning to drive, I was arguing with him about some petty little thing that ended in: “But I have the right of way!” To which he replied: “Is that what you want written on your tombstone?”
I’ve lived by that little quip whether I’m a driver, biker, or pedestrian. Pay attention to your surroundings, everyone on the road is an idiot, and having the right of way does not make one invincible.
This was better advice than the lesson on stopping I got from him at the old deserted airport. I pull to a stop, as if coming up to an intersection. “How’d I do?”
“Dad, how’d I do?”
“I can’t respond. We’re both dead. Big truck just killed us because you pulled out too far.”