They say that history repeats itself. I know this to be absolutely true for I have experienced it myself on more than one occasion, which come to think of it, would be necessary for the “repeat” portion of this old saw.
I’m not full of “man moments,” you know, those times a guy is so full of testosterone that his brain (the one in the upper head) temporarily checks out.
But I certainly had a “man moment” when I was 14. Our family had a go-cart and my father being the deal maker that he was, bought a new engine for it that wouldn’t idle. Once the thing started, off you went. This worked fine if there were two of you. One would jump in the seat, the other would pull-start the engine.
On this particular day, I didn’t have a sidekick around. But I really wanted to take a spin on the go cart. We had a side yard that was a perfect track, bordered on two sides by a six foot fence, one side by the woods and the other by our house.
If you timed it right, you could conceivably start the cart and jump in while the engine was still sputtering to life. And that was the plan. I pulled on the rope. Nothing. Pulled on it again, and cough, cough, the engine sputtered to life. What happened next, I’m not sure. I only know that I never made it into the seat in time. The go cart took off. Instinctively I grabbed onto the back bumper of it. I thought I could reach the kill switch on the back of the engine. It was tougher than I thought, as I was now eating a lot of dirt and clumps of grass as the go cart clawed its way around the track. I didn’t want to let go, because I figured it would run me over, so it just dragged me around and around until it finally hit the house.
I only mention this because history likes to repeat itself, as I said. If I remember correctly, Jimmy Buffett said once, “We only make a mistake so the next time it comes around we can recognize it when we’re about to do it again.”
Fast forward to 1983. My brothers were out to kill me. Literally. After my divorce, they were really ticked. They still are. We haven’t spoken since. Not one word. Back then, they had already superglued the locks of the car I was driving (which wasn’t mine) and probably flattened at least one tire. So I had to go underground. I only had one friend who knew where I lived at the time. I had found my first apartment post-divorce in Edmonds, about as far from Renton as I could get and still get to work.
I still owned my Pinto Wagon, which my brother had sold me and now was claiming title to in his deluded mental state. I didn’t like that car much, mainly because it was a piece of crap. The most maddening thing was that the gas gauge would stick at a quarter tank. Not all the time, mind you. Just once in a while.
Being the proud lease holder of a horribly slummy apartment, I was broke. Every dollar counted. I was only making $5 an hour. I even had to learn to be a good shopper at the supermarket, counting all the pennies I could.
I guess I wasn’t watching the gas gauge as much as I should have been. As I headed back from the grocery store one day, up the long hill that leads into Edmonds, the car started to sputter, then stalled right there in the middle of the road.
I hate people whose cars break down in the middle of the road. I certainly wasn’t about to be one of those people who everyone else fingers and honks at. Instead, I hopped out of the car. Knowing that there was a gas station at the bottom of the hill, I figured I could just turn the car around and coast back to the station.
I know you know where this is going. But the story is well worth telling.
Initially, the car did not want to budge. I was battling the laws of physics. I hunkered down. I placed one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the open car door and with all my might, heaved. The car inched forward. Then it “footed” forward. Within moments I was on a dead trot as the car turned around and started to head downhill.
I could no longer keep up. I didn’t let go, though. Just like the go cart I didn’t want the car to run over me. So there I was, hanging by my hand on the wheel and the other one on the door, being dragged helplessly down the hill. I could feel the heat building up on the side of my tennis shoes, which were now melting. Finally, the car hit the curb on the turn and ran into the base of the water district sign.
I stumbled to my feet. No permanent damage. Not even a scrape. I had had the ride of my life aboard a Pinto. It’s the closest I’d ever been to riding a bucking bronco, and I had survived it.
It was then that I noticed what was going on around me. All the traffic on the road had come to a dead halt. Everyone was out of their cars, gawking at the spectacle they had just witnessed, amazed that I had cheated injury or even death.
I stood there for a moment not knowing what to do. Then I took a bow and waved enthusiastically to the crowd. Everyone applauded, then got back into their cars. Me, I left the damned car there and called my girlfriend to bring me some gas. I wasn’t about to try another run for the gas station again.
Perhaps this is why I shy away from thrill rides to this day. They’re just too tame for me. If they ever design a ride where I’m hanging on the outside of its door for dear life, I’m in.
Out on the Treasure Coast, cursing the invention of the infernal combustion engine, my lifelong torture device,
– Robb