Riding Homewith Dad

The first fateful rides home with Dad in a 240Z.

There were a lot of drives home, just Dad and me in his two seater sports cars. I would spend a lot of time in the passenger seats of those cars.

In the beginning, I was 9 at the time, the drives were somewhat tame. Often early before school on a wintry New England’s morning, we would practice at a frigid inflatable bubble ten minutes down the road.

Dad was unstoppable. Blizzards could not deter him, and we would often follow the snowplow down the dark, empty country roads as it made driving the icy slick lanes just a slight bit less perilous.

Dad and I would play an hour. He was as patient as he could be. Which wasn’t very. The rides home would be filled with alternating words of encouraging instruction
and stinging consternation.

I learned early on those rides home that trying extra hard and playing well was the best defense against the sharp barbs that could come my way. It was his best bedside manner, which in retrospect -wasn’t very mannerly, but his method and tone were all I knew, I had nothing else to compare…