My parents bought a new Oldsmobile in 1952; it had automatic drive and it moved fast. One night I was out driving it with two friends--Toly and Frank. They were curious how fast the Olds could go. I drove out to a road outside Bartlesville and floored it. Before long the car was shaking on her frame and the speedometer showed 110.
Then one of the guys, we were all in the front seat, said there's a car. We saw its lights driving perpendicular to our highway and I said, "It's a curve in the road." But it wasn't; the car was backing out of the parking lot for a beer joint and was only moments away.
I slammed the brakes and my hands froze on the wheel, and our car screeched toward the other car, ready to hit it broadside. Then a hand, I suspect divine intervention, turned the wheel a bit to the left and our car squealed past its back end--the driver had finally stopped--and we ran backwards into the ditch on the opposite side of the road, having just missed another oncoming car.
We sat in silence for awhile, letting our breathing return and our minds stop shrieking. I finally re-started the motor and slowly pulled out. We couldn't talk much.
Toly later became a race car driver and had many more harrowing incidents and accidents.
And that, dear grandkids, is why Grumpy doesn't drive fast and why you shouldn't either.
