OPINION|
You either grow up in a driving family or you don’t. You can find a few exceptions, but not many. Which kind of family you grow up in influences you for life.
In a non-driving family, sometimes going to the local grocery store is a chore that can trigger an anxiety attack. Meanwhile, for a driving family, all it takes is an invitation like “Wanna ride along?” and you’ll be in the car and four blocks away before you even think to ask where you are going.
We grew up in a driving family, at least on Dad’s side of the family. Driving was and is part of our DNA. It was a combination of living in suburban Kansas City and the necessity of getting to and from the various activities of five boys.
Cars also represented independence and freedom to my brothers and me. Plus, when we were able to afford cars with air-conditioning, there were some days (then and still) that the only place the warm-blooded Kincaids could get cool on hot summer days was in the car. It was recycled cold air in a small, enclosed space.
Dad was a road warrior
In the mid- to late-1960s, what kept me up at night was worrying about Dad as he drove thousands and thousands of miles each year to sell advertising for farm magazines.
He traveled at all times of the day in all kinds of weather. I worried about getting the late-night call that he had been in an accident. I had nightmares about how I would react and what I would do.
The fact was, in all those business miles — 40,000-45,000 miles per year in a series of two-year leased cars provided by the company, a total of more than 1.4 million miles over 35 years — there were very few tickets and only two accidents.
The five most valuable lessons he taught us and I passed on to my kids were:
- Always drive defensively and have an escape plan in mind at all times.
- Don’t try to correct your mistakes too quickly — it will only compound the problem.
- Drive on the shoulder if you need to.
- Realize that sometimes it’s safer to speed up, rather than slow down, to avoid trouble.
- On ice, keep the tires turning to allow you to control the car, and avoid braking too hard or locking the brakes.
He also had some specific tricks, too, like snuggling in behind an 18-wheeler in fog or low visibility so the back of the rig outlined in lights provides a guide.
And then there was in-town driving.
At some point, I realized my fear for Dad’s safety wasn’t based on his highway driving, but rather on his in-town driving. On the highway, there was no one better. In town, however, he used maximum acceleration and maximum braking. He followed too close and if he used his blinker, it usually was halfway through the turn.
Dad viewed cars as tools to get from one point to the next, not as showpieces. He treated and drove them that way.
Memorable night when dad said: Enough is enough
As you can imagine, we have lots of driving stories, but there’s one that stands out.
Dad was never boastful. He was, however, confident in his abilities, especially in his driving. He had no tolerance for whining, and he despised drama. All of that combined for a memorable event.
It was a snowy, icy winter night in 1976. My youngest brother, Matt, was a sophomore in high school and still living at home. Matt and Dad, who was in his mid-forties, were watching the local 10 o’clock news. The news anchor cut to a live shot of a reporter in downtown Kansas City, where cars were having trouble getting up 12th Street from the Kemper Arena/livestock yards area. Cars were spinning their wheels; others were sideways on the sides of the street. The reporter described the “treacherous streets” and reported that it was “virtually impossible” for cars to get up the 12th Street hill.
Dad became increasingly exasperated with the reporter and the live shot. He started talking back to the television.
“Those a-holes don’t know how to drive,” he said to the television set. “It’s not that damn hard.”
Finally, he had had enough. He said the magic words: “C’mon, son.”
Dad and Matt got in the car and made the 20-minute trip on Interstate 35 toward downtown Kansas City. They took the 12th Street exit and stopped at the light at the top of the hill that no one could navigate.
Dad took a left onto 12th Street. It’s a four-lane street separated by an 8-inch-high concrete median. He drove the 500 or so feet to the bottom of the hill where the median ended. As he reached the bottom of the hill, he slowed down only slightly, made an abrupt fishtail turn left around the median, and accelerated coming out of the turn so as not to lose momentum. Up the “impossible hill” they went.
The sound of the ice and snow cracking under the tires was drowned out by the thuds of Dad’s hands pounding the steering wheel with his hand-over-hand corrections of the skidding as he wove his way up the two lanes of 12th Street through the stalled, abandoned and tire-spinning cars. All the while, Dad yelled insults through the closed windows at the other drivers for their incompetence. He even took one hand off the wheel long enough to flip the bird to a couple of stranded drivers.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Matt laughed uncontrollably. He reminded me that Dad did all of this on tires of questionable quality since we always had well-worn tires on our cars.
When they reached the top of 12th Street, they got back on I-35, drove home, parked the car, went inside, took off their coats, and sat down to watch the rest of the “Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.”
Point made. Like I said, it’s in the DNA.
