I used to have this shirt that I would wear sometimes when doing SCCA Solo II events in my Miata. I think the wording was, “Autocross: If it were any easier, they would call it Driver Education.” I know, real funny. I thought it was, at least. It was all part of the good-natured ribbing that takes place between parking lot racers and track guys. The lines of demarcation have always been blurry for some, though. If you look at many of our chiefs (Bill Gilbert and Scott Studer immediately come to mind), instructors like Keith Peare, Rick Newman, and Robert Ida, and advanced drivers like Tom Iervolino, Joe Aiovoli, Lou Hudyman, and Iskender Catto, the multi-discipline guys are represented in good numbers.

I count myself among the “ambidriverous” (I just made that up). And so, when the SCCA Northeast Autocross Championship was up on the calendar for May 12-13, I was really excited. Finally! A national-level event locally at the Meadowlands! What would I drive? Who would I co-drive with? The excitement lasted a couple of hours, when Tom Iervolino reminded me that the 13th was Mothers Day. There are some things in life that that you just do not mess with, and Moms are one of them. Rats. I had to cancel. Intrepid Lou Hudyman, with his teammate and wife, Kelly, were driving their Lotus in the big event, though. I decided to live vicariously through them, and follow the live results online as they drove in the competition over the two days.

I was surprised on Sunday, when no results were being posted. I figured something was wrong with the online results system. A text message from Lou late in the day, informed me that the event had actually been cancelled due to a fatality that took place at the Meadowlands early in the day involving a motorcyclist and a traffic investigation. Being a part-time motorcyclist myself, it always touches a special chord in me when I hear about a fallen biker. Naturally, your thoughts turn to their lives, their families, and the general sadness of it all.

“Just wait until you try a New York pretzel,” my dad said, as our pale yellow Coupe de Ville glided down Route 3. I admit I was skeptical. I mean, I was almost six years old already, and I knew what pretzels from a store tasted like. They were good, but hardly the stuff of dreams. My Dad was undeterred his enthusiasm. “The street vendors have these big carts where they cook the pretzels over a charcoal fire,” my dad continued. “They’re hot and a little crunchy on the outside, but soft in the middle. You put a little mustard on them and they are out of this world.”

Food was always inextricably woven into the weekend adventures with my dad. Sometimes he would introduce a new pizza place that he had come across in his travels (like Pizza Kings). Sometimes it was a bakery with great cheese buns (Hahns). Or an amazing burger joint (The Brook Tavern). Or the best sloppy joes in New Jersey (Bangiolas). Or hot dogs with long slices of pickle and birch beer on tap (Johnnys). Whatever the place or cuisine, he made it all part of the adventure, and the adventure on this day was my first trip to New York City to see the Auto Show.

I sat in the passenger seat of the big coupe, in this time before modern annoyances like child seats, rear-seat laws, airbags, and seat belts. I guess as it is with most recollections from childhood, that Caddy seemed bigger than life. Only it was bigger than life, with an enormous split bench in front and a long expanse of dashboard that dwarfed me in a wall of plastic wood. I loved the small details that the car had, like those little sentinel lights on the leading edge of each front fender that showed that the headlights were functioning, and the Cadillac emblems, ducks and all, seemingly everywhere. The car’s eight-track player clicked back to Program 1, and Barry Manilow appropriately began to wax poetic about the New York City Rhythm.

“Here comes the Lincoln Tunnel,” my dad announced. He had already primed me for this part of the trip, and I was eager to see what driving under the water felt like. “Like a big bathroom,” I thought, as we drove through the tiled tube, my eyes scanning vigilantly for even the slightest of water leaks.

Earth Day, April 23, marks one year since John’s death at the age of 62. I met John at Watkins Glen a dozen years ago in my early days of driver education. My gearbox had broken and was bleeding oil. I had come alone and was more than a bit worried even though I was […]