Random Firings by Hank Farber

Cars and Cities, especially New York City, do not mix well. In addition to the traffic, there the is problem of where to put the vehicle when you are actually not driving. I HATE to pay the very high parking rates in the city (probably a result of my mother having lived through the great depression), so I can spend more time than is sensible searching for a legal and "safe" spot (as if there is such a thing in the Big Apple). For those of us who do drive into the City, a well-diversified portfolio of cars includes an "urban assault vehicle."

Definition: Urban Assault Vehicle -- A car that is reliable and sufficiently without market value that the owner can take it anywhere and leave it anywhere without concern. A first-class urban assault vehicle is the kind of car that you can leave the keys in the ignition and no one will bother to take it. But perhaps the most important characteristic of an urban assault vehicle is that it is so obviously without value that no driver, no matter how young and/or testosterone crazed, will dare to challenge you in traffic.

BMWs are not commonly thought of as urban assault vehicles, but I have become the proud owner of one of the few. This is the (in)famous car-that-will-not-die (CTWND), the 1987 325is that I inherited from my brother (you know, the one that was on its side in the uphill at Lime Rock). It is now ready for street use, what with tires with actual tread, standard brake pads, roll-bar padding, and a rear seat. But it still has its all of its battle scars, including the badly dented driver's door, mismatched mirrors, chipped and faded, paint, and on and on. While my son will use this car as his daily driver, it will be the car of choice for urban assaults. No one will challenge me.

No one except my Dad, that is. Here is the story. In 1965, our family car was a 1963 Buick Wildcat with a 400+ cubic inch motor, minimal suspension, and no brakes to speak of. It got about 6 miles to the gallon, was fast, and did not handle. But my dad loved it. One Sunday we went to Manhattan in the Wildcat to visit relatives. On the way home, we were heading into the Holland Tunnel as the lanes merged entering a toll booth. Remember, these were the days when the Port Authority collected tolls in both directions. Well, there were the five of us in my father's prize 2-year old Buick Wildcat. I was in the back with my brother and sister, and my mother was riding shotgun. Now riding shotgun for my mother consisted of a repeating litany: "Oy vay. Lenny, slow down. You are driving too fast. What kind of example are you setting for the children". My father reports that the first part of the litany continues to this day. A digression: One has to wonder whether my father drives "too fast" because my grandfather set a bad example or because of rogue genes. Similarly, One has to wonder whether I drive "too fast" because my father set a bad example or because of rogue genes. Finally, one has to wonder whether my son drives "too fast" because I set a bad example or because of rogue genes. I do not think we will ever know the answer to this deeply existential question. But my own view is that genes are important here, and I suspect that my great-grandfather would have driven too fast in the old country had automobilies existed there in the 19th century.

Back to the Holland Tunnel. There we were, two lanes merging to one, practically at the toll booth, my Dad in the new Wildcat and THE KID in the mid- 50s Pontiac. Neither would yield, both inching forward toward the toll booth, door-handle to door-handle. There's my mother "Lenny, oy vay. What are you doing? You're worse than that crazy kid." There are my brother and I "Dad, don't let him in. This is really cool." At the last possible second, the 400+ cubic inches are filled with what ever the huge 4-barrel carb can supply and we screech forward to pay the toll ahead of THE KID. We kids thought that our Dad was just the greatest. My mother had a different view.

Needless to say, THE KID was not happy at all. Once we were in the Tunnel, THE KID crossed the double-yellow (a big no-no) to pass my father. It was his bad luck to be spotted by a Port Authority policeman, and the last we saw of THE KID he was getting a ticket on the New Jersey side of the tunnel.

The moral of this story? I have no idea. But my dad was lucky that he was not facing down the-car-that-will-not-die.