Faster Yet: Navigating The West

I learned to drive from my mother.  While most kids had their father’s teach them, it was my saintly mom who had the patience, wisdom and tinge of fear to get behind the wheel with me.
Scottsdale in those days was a great place to learn about the interactions of the auto world.  There was not a lot of traffic.  Cars were not all that spectacular either.  Most kids were grateful to have  multiple-generationally-passed-down beaters.  Old trucks were not uncommon as they generally helped make life a bit easier, especially with so many families in the neighborhood having livestock or at least a few horses.
The exception was my best friend Kelley Wolfswinkel who had a real Corvette that just oozed glam.  Her mane of blonde hair would float around her with just the right mix of tousle and control.  To this day, I am convinced that Farrah Fawcett somehow saw Kelley zooming across Camelback and copied her hairstyle into fame and fortune.
Soon, cars began to dominate the status landscape.  Our own Scottsdale police department zipped around in blue and white Bricklins which were super sexy, if not 100% reliable.  So there was a precedent beginning to form that Scottsdale was becoming the capitol of car aficionados.
Somehow, my father did not get the message.  I drove a used car that I bought with years of babysitting money and after school work.  It came from Lou Grubb and had been owned by a grandmother who only drove it to church.  If I had not actually witnessed Lou telling my father this, I would think it a joke.
Nevertheless, I bestowed the basic Dodge Dart, painted in a horrible shade of brown, the fun name of Herbie.  I just had to make it more appealing.  After all, if I was relegated to a Dodge, I might as well make it the best damn Dart in Scottsdale.
My mother strapped in and with a prayerful eye towards the heavens helped me navigate the potholes of Exeter which ultimately led to driving on the faster streets of Scottsdale Road and Indian School.  She slid along Herbie’s naugahyde vinyl bench seats with tremendous aplomb and never a harsh word or even a gasp.
When I screeched the breaks, she never screeched along with them.  She would gently offer wisdom about keeping my distance, slowing down and never making a left turn if a right turn could ultimately take us where we wanted to go.  It was a kind of auto-geometry that still navigates me today.
From the Heart…