Freewheeling Blog: "Right Turns on Every Red" - The Legend of My Car Named "Air Force One"

I've often said your first car should be a junker. You can't start a kid off with a Ferrari! They have to drive a bad car so they learn on it and then appreciate every successive car more.

I had not one but two clunkers to begin my driving experience. The first eventually became known as Air Force One.

My first name for it was The Gaseater, Bugkiller Special, because it seemed only good for those traits. This car burned through 6 miles per gallon in the city, 8 miles on the highway. Our family had purchased this used car while I was in middle school, and by high school, it had started falling apart. The rest of the football team loved opening up the hood to look at the collection of bailing wire and clothespins my dad used to hold the engine together.

When I took it off to college, its decline accelerated like a no-brakes vehicle dashing downhill. Of course, I didn't help it. I pulled into a full service gas station near the University of Texas campus to ask why the car sounded so bad; the attendant let me know it was a good idea to add oil, as my car had nary a drop. Oops!

The car possessed a few "features." For example, I noticed if I worked the trunk just right, it would balance midway in an open position. So, on a camping trip with my service fraternity, I decided to sleep in the open trunk, first handing my keys to the most trustworthy person in case someone tried to prank me by closing the trunk. Of course, an attempt was made, but I thwarted it by positioning planks above me to prevent the lid from closing.

On the way back from that trip, bouncing along rocky backroads, the muffler fell off. We threw it in the trunk and kept driving the 45 minutes into Austin. That's when I learned what a muffler does. Driving with the windows open, the three passengers and I kept having the same conversation.

"It's really loud!"

"I can't hear what you're saying! It's too loud!"

Our ears rang about as long as it took to get a new muffler installed the next day.

I became president of that service fraternity, so we renamed the vehicle Air Force One. As I ascended, the poor car descended into a new depth of driving experience.

The next "feature" it developed was that the engine would die at all speeds under ten miles per hour. I want you to think about that for a moment. Backing out of a parking space was quite the adventure, as the car would keep choking. (Yes, I parked in pull-through spaces whenever possible). To back out, I had to rev the engine, slam the car into reverse, screech out of the parking space, pop the car into drive, and peel out to go forward. This sequence could take anywhere from five to fifteen minutes before I got it just right.

Unsurprisingly, my girlfriend didn't like to ride with me. She had no patience with all the false starts. Say she was visiting my apartment. She would stay up in my second-floor apartment until I honked to indicate I had successfully put Air Force One into drive. In a delicate balancing act, I would try to go 11 miles per hour in a parking lot only eight cars long before I reached the street. When I honked, she would tear down the stairs and leap into the passenger side just as I entered the traffic flow.

(I took a previous girlfriend to a prom. I rented a car for that event. All I could afford was a Pinto).

Upon reaching the streets of Austin, Air Force One faced a new challenge: red lights. Oh, stop signs were bad too, but I pretty much just ran them. But I had to drive cautiously on the main streets, trying to time every light to reach it in green status with no traffic stopped in front of me.

I stayed in the right lane, because if I did reach a red light, I would have to turn right on red without hesitation and hope to God no traffic was coming. Then I would drive until I could turn right. . . then turn right. . .then turn right onto the main street again.

I recall one time when a bunch of friends all left one location to go eat somewhere. It was about a ten-minute drive. I showed up thirty minutes later. They had all ordered and starting eating. "Where were you?" they asked. "Too many red lights," I replied.

When I graduated from college, I happily hand-me-downed Air Force One to my sister and purchased a used car at a Texas Department of Public Safety auction, christening it as Air Force Two. Coming from a public safety background, however, didn't mean it was safe. In fact, I was convinced Air Force Two wanted to kill me. I'll share that tale in next month's Freewheeling Blog post.