RUDIMENTS, pt.148
Making Cars
A few times in my life, I've gone
a hundred mph, and a little more.
One time, I was merely a passenger,
in a 1956 Buick. Some guy who was
a friend of a friend, no one I really
knew - his name was 'Hodge,' which
I guessed was his last name, I think
the first name was Dan - had that
car. Rt. 287 had just been opened
up and was still little used, only
a month or so in, so it was more
than anything else, a huge, free
straightaway for any aspiring fool
to dare-to-speed. Hodge's car was,
by that time, some 11 or 12 years
old. At the time it seemed like it was
already an ancient, big, hulk of a car,
but not really. Instead of a speedometer
with the usual needle-arrow and such,
it had a red-mercury, horizontal dial -
like a thermometer on its side -
which corresponded, at its end, to
the speed number marked on the
gauge. 40, 50, 70,80, etc. It stopped
at 120. It was a cool thing, and from
the rear seat I was able to view it.
The other friend was in the front
passenger seat. They'd made a 50
dollar bet that the Buick couldn't
do a hundred, and 287 gave them the
perfect place to prove it out. The car
was lumbering giant, and did nothing
really swiftly, but it was soon running
through the 80's and then the 90's. At
which point things got interesting. From
my viewpoint, the car topped out at
what looked like maybe 104, 103. My
friend however, standing also to lose his
50 bucks, (lots of money, then), started
yelling and calling foul - from his very
sideways viewpoint, with its bias, the
reading seemed to have maybe hit 98 ,
or 99. They were arguing back and forth.
Disinterested third party me, asked what
I thought, simply said, 'I couldn't tell, the
window was open.' [non-sequitor that,
just some babble I tried to get out of the
situation, like saying, when asked if the
house burned down, that 'I couldn't tell,
the TV was on.'] - I eventually said,
Yeah, it looked like about 105 to me.'
They still argued, like mad, crazy kids
with a toy, but this was a car, in which I
had just minutes before been in danger
perhaps of dying in. I guess he paid up;
I never found out. On the way back in,
we went down (old) Green Street, Iselin.
It was a white slum then, all junky and
broken down, whereas now it's one of
the capitols of Indian/Asian eastcoast
commerce and business. At a stop light,
right by St. Cecelia's, there was a
candy-store, sweet-shop, and crazy
Hodge decided he needed a pack of
cigarettes. So, the light being red, and
without any regard for the rest of the
world, he just exits the car, enters the
store, and makes his cigarette purchase.
Maybe two or three minutes at most,
but, still longer than the light, but
he couldn't have cared less. He'd just
cracked 100, in his '56 Buick. The other
drivers, fuming, still just mutely sat
there, for there second, or third, light.
Hodge never even looked back.
-
Another time, and I was behind the wheel
this time, was in my '57 Jaguar - a quite
faulty car in that it weighed mucho-tons,
and had very poor brakes, akin to none.
The brakes were so bad that I'd often
stop at green lights, if I was able, just
because I knew it would be red soon and
I'd have successfully stopped for it! The
car this time had, besides myself, 4
other people in it. Complete fool that I
was, I could have killed 5 people in one
fell swoop on this run. Coming back up
from Sea Bright or Sandy Hook, or
somewhere just down there at the start
of what passes for the Jersey Shore at
its most northern ends. A guy and his
girlfriend, in a fancy Volvo sports car,
had come up alongside me. My car
interested them, the girl smiled at me
in what I took to me a rather 'longing'
manner, and I was seduced. Signaling
the start of a great race all the way up
to Woodbridge, (on Rts. 36 and 36,
no less), we were off. It was suicidal,
maddeningly foolish, and surely apt
to draw the law. But nothing happened.
When you attain such speeds, on a
light-traffic cold, mid-afternoon
Sunday, you're pretty much ahead
of all the lights. They just seemed
to stay green, the entire run. (I think
they made some sort of Burt Reynolds
movie about something like this in
later years). I won, by a nose hair,
but it didn't matter. I turned off at
the Avenel firehouse on Rt. One
(we'd merged into Routes 1 and 9
by then) and he kept heading north.
With his girlfriend (whom I just
assumed went to the winner.
I was cheated). To make matters
worse, I continued along Avenel
Street, and right through the
underpass, at about 70. No one
died. No one got scratched.
And by Rahway Ave., I was
done. It was Winter, little traffic,
and what I proved, I still don't know.
-
The third time was on the Garden State
Parkway, in a little Mercedes Benz I
had gotten, in a trade for a motorcycle.
a 280CE, or CE280, however they do
that, it was just a nice, little, 4-door
early 70's model. I liked it, but it didn't
last too long for me. Anyway, it was
Christmas Eve, I had to haul-ass down
to Brick, which is exit 80 or something,
from 133, where I'd started. That's like
55 miles, or close. I was bored. Didn't
really want to be going. Had my wife,
and my son and one of his girlfriends
in the car, and just decided to have a go.
I guess it was about 6pm, traffic was
light, and I turned it on. I hit 100 in
15 seconds or so, it seemed, and once
between tolls, I was rolling each time.
It was fun. Again, to my benefit, there
was no law around I guess. I was
bouncing between 100 and 110, for
some good stretches. No one said
much, and the car remained
pretty quiet.
-
I never know, nor knew either, what
'speed' represented in these terms. It's
all relative, using the Einstein version
of things (and as I told the passengers,
"Well, we're going to see relatives. Isn't
that what you wanted?). A certain
perspective is reached where Speed
represents joy and happiness; where
Speed counteracts all the processes of
what otherwise bores us and holds us
back. Einsteinian time-warps and
relativity-bends are sought, because,
speaking for myself, I just know that
that's where the spirit and the soul
and all the angels dwell - in that
mad-long-rush of a dash for Life.
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