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Our Two Cents: Scariest Moments In Cars
Sure, the vast majority of the time we spend in, on, and around cars is fun, but every now and again there’s a moment that brings about a pretty severe pucker factor. It could be of our own doing, or just circumstance—either way, we don’t soon forget it.
I couldn’t help but cringe, sympathize, and even laugh as my colleagues’ answers came in about some of the most frightening car-related moments they’ve experienced. (And as usual, we have a good Moment of Sajeev, too.) Has something similar happened to you, or is there an off-the-wall story that turned you pale? Let us know below.
Check the Weather
“Where are you two headed?”
“Mt. Cook.”
“Ah, be careful—gale force winds expected today.”
It was as nonchalant as telling us to grab our raincoats on the way out. Turns out the lady behind the desk at our bed and breakfast wasn’t kidding. The journey on our honeymoon from Christchurch, New Zealand, to Mt.Cook was the most white-knuckle drive I’ve ever been on.
Though it started out clear enough, our rented Toyota Prado was soon doing its best impression of a sailboat on rough seas. On the way, we watched in fright as a gust of wind partially lifted and nearly toppled an ambulance 30 yards after it passed us. Not long after, we headed up into the foothills and among the mountains with barely any visibility, constant gusts, and me driving on the “wrong” side of the road.
I did think about stopping, but in my usual push-through-it fashion, I rationalized that our hotel would be a better place to wait out a storm than somewhere on the side of the road. We made it, and after a day or so of wild storms, it cleared enough to hike out to see Mt. Cook.
From then on, though, even if I’ve got a stoic face on for the moment, I double-check the weather before a long trip.—Eddy Eckart
Rate of Descent
My fear of heights seems to come and go over the years, but pointing a 3200-pound, 101-year-old car that primarily relied on its rear drum brakes for stopping power down from the top of Mount Washington was an experience I am not jumping to re-create.
It was a side opportunity during the 2018 Great Race that rallied from Buffalo, New York, to Halifax, Nova Scotia. The 1917 Peerless speedster I was driving had been retrofitted with front disc brakes from a 1980s Ford truck, but the retrofit was not well-engineered and would lock the rear wheels before the front discs would bite and provide real stopping power. The 330-cid V-8 under the single aluminum sheet of a hood didn’t have enough compression to keep speeds under control even with the ignition off, so the entire trip down was a game of choosing which part of the car to abuse for a little while. Very scenic climb, white-knuckle descent.—Kyle Smith
Youthful Luck
When I was a freshman in high school, I went into downtown Chicago with a friend in his Ford Escort LX. This was summertime, and it started raining very hard while we were in the city. On our way home, my friend, who was 16 and hadn’t had his license very long, was merging onto the Dan Ryan Expressway when we hit standing water and hydroplaned at about 55 mph. We pirouetted a few times across four lanes of afternoon traffic yet somehow managed to avoid A) hitting anyone and B) getting hit by anyone. He got up to speed again pretty quickly and we just rode in silence for a while before the laughing and swearing started. But I’m pretty sure we both filled our shorts.—Stefan Lombard
(Street) Walking in Memphis
(Excuse us, we, um, can’t seem to find a representative photo for this one. —Ed.)
Man, long list of times I’ve been scared in a car. The first one that comes to mind is, well, the first one, and it’s likely not what you think. I was 17, I believe, and like many car-absorbed teenagers, we were just driving around one night, going nowhere, me and my friend Earl, in my 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1.
It was pretty late, and somehow we ended up in downtown Memphis. I turned left onto Beale Street, now a popular, reasonably upscale tourist attraction. It was different then. We were about to learn how different.
The street felt almost deserted. There was a red light. I stopped. It was the longest red light in history. Suddenly, they seemed to come from nowhere. We were surrounded. By prostitutes. Bored prostitutes. One stuck her head in the passenger window, where Earl was sitting. “Aw, it’s nothing but two little boys!” She reached in and pinched Earl on the cheek. Another one, on my side, reached in and tweaked my upper arm. “Oooh, look at the muscles on this one!” She was lying. I had no muscles. Earl and I were both staring straight ahead, eyes wide, in a cold sweat. They were all laughing at us. Finally, the light turned green. “Oops, gotta go,” I croaked, and took off in a cloud of smoke. They were still laughing. I don’t think Earl and I ever spoke of it again.—Steven Cole Smith
One More Time: Check the Weather
It was April 2, 2016. My senior year in college was a blur—only partially because of the drinks. One of my housemates had a house on Lake Michigan that we’d all decided was where we wanted to watch the Men’s NCAA Final Four. As we hopped into our cars to head 40 minutes south to Saugatuck, the sun was shining, although an odd layer of snow had recently coated the ground. No matter; the highways were clear and we zipped down without a care in the world.
Fast-forward six-or-so hours later to the conclusion of the second game; we step back outside to some of the thickest, heaviest snow I’ve ever seen, and it’s coming down in sheets. I reckon six inches had fallen while we were cooped up inside.
The snow wouldn’t have been a problem—except I was driving my Guards Red 1987 Porsche 924S. The rear-drive coupe was a nightmare in the white stuff, but I made it back to the highway without much drama.
Then the snow got even heavier. Maybe 15 feet of visibility. As we were coming back, I specifically remember my housemate, Tommy, asking me, “So is it hard to drive this thing in all this snow?”
“Not particularly,” I said, doing my best to hide the panic. “You just gotta be careful with your inputs.”
As I said that, I looked ahead and saw a bunch of red lights—traffic was slowing down to a crawl. I went to downshift the car to slow down gradually, but I mismatched the revs. The resulting rpm spike kicked the rears loose and sent us spinning perilously across the two-lane blacktop. We came to rest facing diagonally across both lanes, and the car stalled out.
Then the semi headlights appeared. I managed to get the car restarted, threw it in reverse, and dumped the clutch, escaping an unscheduled kiss with a Kenworth by maybe four inches.
Needless to say, the Porsche remained parked for the remainder of winter—and then a little bit of spring, too. Just to be extra cautious.—Nate Petroelje
A Bridge and a Drive-In
Growing up in Northern Michigan, we frequently traveled to the Upper Peninsula for camping excursions or St. Ignace’s summer car show. To get to the UP, you have to pass over the Mackinac Bridge. As a kid scared of heights, that was really intimidating.
This five-mile-long suspension bridge is a big beast, carrying four lanes of traffic high over the Straits of Mackinac. The seemingly low guardrail provides a front-row view of the freshwater below. This is where it gets scary for first-timers, or at least it was for me. Things don’t stop with the short rail. On the inside lanes, in both directions, there’s a strip of metal grating in the middle sections of the bridge. The large metal holes in the grate allow for wind to better pass over/through the bridge and help with water drainage.
They’re also really scary.
Looking down from the side window, you can see through the grate to the water. So yeah, anyway, super scary the first few times driving over. Now, I’m not so scared of the Mighty Mac. I swear.
Oh, also the first time I took a date to the drive-in movies. That was really scary.—Cameron Neveu
Thin Ice
In 2014 and 2015 I went ice racing with the SCCA Ice Runs crew in Beaverton, Michigan, on Ross Lake. It’s a time trial—a fantastic experience that lays bare the nuances of traction and car control. But when you’re staging up on the ice and you can feel and hear deep sounds in the lake below, it’s a cold comfort to hear from ice-run veterans that these are just “stress cracks.” Uh, okay.—Eric Weiner
The Americana Tradition of the Bait & Switch
This fanciful tale is based on true scary events as witnessed by Car Dealer Sajeev.—Ed
David and Deborah never much cared for buying a new car, as it was more of a necessary hassle to get in and out of the suburbs for work and play. But here they were at a Pontiac dealership in the summer of 1982, because their 1971 Pontiac GT-37 coupe just flipped its odometer and they knew the problems were coming with it. Dave admits he never quite warmed up to the downsized Grand Prix in 1978, but he saw there were two examples advertised in the Sunday newspaper (called loss leaders in the car business) that piqued his interest. Deb couldn’t care less, she just wanted a quick upgrade from the GT-37’s burning hot vinyl seats and corny boy-racer stripes that her friends loved to tease her about in the checkout line at the local Minimax.
The couple met Frank, a salesman who “upped” them at the door, as he hastily put out his cigarette on the pebble-infused concrete pad outside the mid-century modern dealership’s front door. Dave was all about getting behind the wheel of a new 1982 Grand Prix, preferably one of two units mentioned in the newspaper. Frank agreed and took them around the minimalist dealership, making small talk, while pointing out a bright red Bonneville coupe to Deb to break the ice. As they turned the corner, Dave quickly extended his right arm and stopped everyone in their tracks.
Parked to the side of the showroom, under an ominous concrete cantilevered ceiling was a stunning example of the Pontiac Grand Prix. The unique roofline got his attention, but the brushed aluminum B-pillar trim stopped Dave in his tracks. “Wait, what is this one? I have never seen a Grand Prix like this before!”
“Oh, that’s the exclusive Americana edition, made in 1981 only. We bought it from another Pontiac dealership that had too many Grand Prixs—if you are interested I can get you the keys and make you a fantastic deal on it.”
Deb sighed. She knew this was the GT-37 all over again. She just wanted a LeMans back in 1971, but Dave sees something sparkly and loses all perspective. Frank saw it too, knowing he had a sucker on the hook. As expected, the test drive was fantastic and Dave verbally repeated the unique features Frank taught him about the Americana, fixating on the “French-style” opera windows. There was no window sticker, but Frank did mention this was a leftover bought from another dealer. Dave couldn’t wait to see the deal they’d offer him, and Frank couldn’t wait to hand the couple off as chum to the shark in the finance office.
The deal went smoothly, much to Deb’s surprise. They sold that leftover 1981 Grand Prix Americana for the same price as the two units mentioned in the newspaper, and Dave gleefully signed every document put in his hands. Deb noticed the happiness in the finance manager’s face, and the twinkle that came from his Rolex from the harsh lighting above the wood-paneled office. She was uneasy, and for good reason.
A few days after delivery, she got a call at home from Frank. Apparently the dealership got the paperwork wrong, as they put the VIN of the Grand Prix from the newspaper loss leader specials in the paperwork and ran the entire deal on one of them. She called Dave’s office in a panic, and he assured her this was all a mistake and he would head to the Pontiac dealership after work to handle it.
Upon Dave’s arrival, a stern-faced Frank led him to the finance office, where another nameless finance manager gave him the bad news. The Americana he fell in love with was now a stolen car, and he would have to either pay more for it, or go home with the car with the VIN that matches the paperwork. Frank took him behind the showroom to see the loss leaders: Since they were the same price he could pick one of those to go home in.
Dave sighed as he approached the steel-roof Grand Prixs, one in red and the other in green. He noted the drab wheel covers and blackwall tires as Frank mentioned that neither came with crushed velour seats or that FM radio he really liked. But it got worse, as Dave noticed the red Grand Prix had a green vinyl interior and the green one had a red vinyl interior. Dave explained, “Who would order cars that were so ugly?”
“Mistakes happen, that’s why they are the cheapest on the lot!” said Frank, with a little smirk, as he knew the trap was set. Those guys in the service department really did a great job switching interiors in the two Pontiacs this time. Last year they forgot to remove the window stickers, which cost him a sale.
Dave drove home that evening in his cherished Grand Prix Americana, hungry and crestfallen after becoming $2200 poorer over the next 48 months. “Well, not including 14 percent interest on that $2200 I just signed away,” he thought. How the hell was he going to explain this to Deb when he gets home?—Sajeev Mehta
Wow, Sajeev, this was just supposed to just be “scary” stuff – and you wrapped it up with something truly terrifying and life-altering to the psyches of all husbands. I may not sleep with both eyes closed again!
When you get as many miles on you as I have (literally and figuratively), you likely have many scary behind the wheel moments. While I could list quite a few “in cars” as the question requires, I hope you’ll give me license to relate one from my semi driving days in the ’70s. As I was coming down the California side of Donner Pass (I-80) one winter day, I had pulled into the passing lane to go around a little (Datsun?) pick-up. There was a broken snow floor, and the guy was being extremely cautious in his lightweight truck. Coming around a curve, I spied a semi tanker up ahead, jackknifed into the center median guardrail. He was blocking the lane I was in. Just like in a movie, my eyes zoomed in several hundred yards and I clearly saw the “FLAMMABLE” markings on the trailer. We were in a right-hand curve, so the guy in the pick-up couldn’t see down the hill past my rig. As I touched brakes and grab the stick to downshift, my trailer started getting wonky (likely thinking about jackknifing on this curve just like the tanker had done). In my right mirror, I saw the guy – probably wondering why I was slowing instead of passing him. I was slowing, but stopping in time wasn’t going to happen. I had a decision to make: run headlong into a gasoline tanker or get into that right-hand lane to get past it. Possible immolation vs. a Datsun… I was laying on the airhorn, but the pick-up driver was oblivious. I touched the trailer brakes once more, trying to intimidate him to drop back – and when he didn’t, I just drifted over. He slammed on his brakes – too late – and my trailer tires smacked him in the side, sending him into the guard rail and partly over it. I glided by the end of the tanker by mere feet and finally stopped in a couple hundred more feet. Pick-up driver was okay. Pick-up truck was not. Tanker driver and truck were untouched. My trailer tires had light blue paint on them, but no damage. The ChiPs officer wrote me a ticket but was sympathetic to the situation. All-in-all, an okay outcome, except that pulling my long-johns out from the pucker was brutal (sorry for the mental image of that part)!
Muhahahahahahaha!!!
The man has a Dark Side, don’t he? 😱
No doubt, you learned something from that, too.
I can’t decide between happening A or B:
A. Going from Cincinnati to Harrisburg to pickup up a 1932 Rolls-Royce 4-door hanger queen driving a 1968 Chev station wagon with a bumper bolt-on hitch and a trailer with surge brakes. I went in one snowstorm and returned in another on the Penn Turnpike where there are all the signs reading,”Danger-Downhill Descending Curves”. An iffy rig with moderately poor brakes trying to say whoa, while the 3-ton car on the trailer says go as I enter a curve trying to avoid a jacknife situation while keeping momentum for the next hill.
B: As a teen driver in my first car (a 1950 Riley 2.5 4-door to be followed by a 1953 Austin A-40 Sports with an aluminum Jensen convertible body- no old Fords and Chevys for me!) Dad and I would drive 250 miles on a Saturday to visit my Dad’s girlfriend. He is driving on US 23 (now an expressway but then a 2-lane road) when we catch the mob heading back north after the Ohio State football game. They are driving 30 mph in a 60 zone. My Dad’s patience ran the gamut from A to B and on a straight stretch with no oncoming cars, luckily, he decides to pull out into the left lane and run 70 to start passing. I quit counting when I got to 20 cars without pulling back into the normal lane. I held up a book because I didn’t want to see what we hit. To this day as scared as I have ever been. As a follow-up, Monday morning I am driving back while he snoozes after a good weekend. Straight flat road, sunny day, 10 am, only see another car every five or 10 minutes and I am cruising at 70 in a 60 zone. He awakens, sees me at 70 and smacks me on the back of my head with a “Slow down,dammit! You trying to kill us?” The same guy two days later with the greatest example of parental “don’t do as I do-do as I say” ever. This parental trait might be a good subject for a future discussion.
I have had many exciting moment in cars and have done crazy things that would scare the p1ss out of many.
But I have two times where someone has pulled out and blocked the toad on me while traveling at high speed.
First was 45 mph into a van. I drove the Fieto home but the van really had a hard time getting back into the drive.
Yes the Fiero I show today.
The worst was a texting driver so pulled front of me at 65 mph. I only had a hard right turn to make to not t bone him sitting in my lane. I missed him and was making the turn till the gravel in the intersection slid the car just missing a stop sign and going up embankment. I stopped short of a telephone pole. I went back later and looked and where I went was the only way out and God was with me that day.
People asked if I was mad. A little but I really had death on my mind when I saw his car and knew I had to find a better way. I thought when my wife picked me up I was lucky to be going home with them.
Now we have had air borne and up on two wheels type things in the past but that was just for fun.
Also my first time driving a stock car. I was hauling into the turns thinking this is not going to stop. I was shown the braking points and it stopped faster and harder than anything I have driven. Your brain says no but Willwood says yes.
My Fiero crash story. 1990, Silverlake area of Los Angeles, late night, 4 lane road. Driving through intersection on green light. Ford Fairmont turns left in front of me. Last thing I remember is a pop up headlight breaking my windshield and a chrome bumper sliding up the hood and hitting the A-pillar, before I ducked down. Bad part – I just bought the Fiero 4 days before. Insurance agent joked about young guys with sports cars. Also, the other driver did not have insurance, expired driver license, and expired registration. The only time I ever had to use uninsured motorist coverage. That still was not my scariest moment in a car.
I was privileged to get some laps in an older (70s) Indy racer at my home track, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in Speedway, Indiana. I wasn’t good. The car switched from benign to actively trying to kill me with no apparent pattern. But when it was working with me? I’ve never been faster in a ground vehicle, nor felt so in control.
Oh then Farming. As a kid riding on an Oliver 1855 fender with a death grip on the handle. You slip and iy]t is under the wheels. That was fun too.
Yep farming can be hazardous. Had a 656 IH years ago. Pulled into the yard wearing a loose fitting jacket…must have been spring or fall. Jumped off too make some kind of adjustment with the engine still running. Loose fitting jacket caught on the gear shifter and pulled it into gear. There I am hanging from the jacket in front of the big rear tire going round and round. I was younger then and agile enough to pull myself back on to the tractor and shut it down. First thing that came to my mind was, “I hope that’s the stupidest thing I do today”.
Farm equipment does perform differently. Turning right at speed on a Farmall Cub reminded me of the downside of an off- centre engine placement. And having the variable speed belt drive break on a steep uphill on our Cockshutt combine led to a wild ride back down the hill. The first instinct is to turn away from the standing wheat but when that puts the almost full grain tank on the downhill side a quick right turn into the crop put the right-hand wheel back on the ground. Whew!!!
My most recent ‘moment’ is similar to the 928 story. I was in Tyrone PA visiting family, and I knew there was weather heading in. I’m talking with family and I’m keeping a watchful eye on one of the side streets I can see out the window. We got into a good round of conversation, and when I looked, the former black side street was white. I said ‘time to go’, made as hasty of an exit as I could, and hopped into my 1 Series to brave the ride home, being very mindful of ‘watching the inputs’. So much snow had accumulated that I went up the highway on-ramp at a slight angle with a steady, cautious application of throttle, because I knew if I stopped I was not only done, I would be blocking the ramp. I thought I would be home free on the ‘slab’, but there was significantly more accumulation on the highway than I expected. It was a very long, slow, cautious white knuckle ride until I got on the other side of the mountains.
You know how they say that in certain moments of danger, time seems to slow way down?
I had a ’62 Dodge D-100 Sweptline that I used for hauling firewood out of the nearby mountains. I pulled a 12′ trailer behind it, and once with a full load, I spun out on an incline with a snow floor. I had a front-mounted winch, had pulled out the cable, and was looking for a stump when a guy in a big 4WD pulled around me and offered to give me a tow to the top of the hill. He took my hook and put it on his bumper bracket. As we started to move, the hook slipped off his bracket. The split second until the hook struck my windshield took about 3 minutes in my mind. I really was able to see it and the cable zipping right toward my 5-year-old son’s face as he sat between me and the wife. Whack! Thank goodness for safety windshields and good, solid ’60s glass!
Very lucky, indeed. More than a few people have died the same way
Late 1970’s. A kid my age lived a few houses down was given his dad’s 70-72 GMC C20. It was a nice truck when he got it but he had trashed it. He wasn’t a bad person just that he didn’t think things through and that was dangerous. I can remember looking over as he plugged in the circular saw I was changing the blade on.
So he calls me up one day and says he needs a tow home because, best I remember, he had fried the transmission. I asked him if he had knew how to pull with a cable (all I had that day) before and he said yes.
On about the second corner he let it slack so much it wrapped the cable around the front tire and broke the 3/8″ cable.
It wrapped the side of my 66 Bronco and the frayed end blasted through the right vent window glass. Nearly 50 years later I can still see the frayed cable end maybe a foot from my face looking like an angry snake before it shot back out the window and made a big old West Texas pinstripe through the paint most of the length of the Bronco.
Woof! That there would indeed have been scary. Glad all that got “pinstriped” was the Bronco and not your face, George!
I’ve owned several fast cars over past decades, including a CJ Mustang, R Code 66 Fairlane, AC Cobra, but the only car that scared me was my Series 200 Griffith. It weighed 1900 pounds, had a very short wheelbase, and I tempted fate by installing a stroker 289, with ported heads, roller cam, which brought it to about 380HP according to the engine builder (no dyno record-sorry). I was doing my fifth or sixth “build-Up” test drive shakedown when I decided to go to 5000 RPM and do a quick semi-power shift with a close ratio top loader. The Griffith pulled so hard that felt that electric shock effect in my chest. Thank goodness that Bob Cuneo cured 100 percent of the Bump Steer before doing this or the car would get unstable. I never did that again-
Here’s Beale St. in approximately 1970. https://c8.alamy.com/comp/BTKKPM/beale-street-circa-1970s-BTKKPM.jpg
Ha! Yeah, that’s it.
I’ll have a Double Cola, please, then drive off in my 1967 (?) Buick.
I’ve wrecked three cars and had to put a motorcycle onto the sidewalk to avoid another accident, but none of that scared me at the time. There wasn’t time to be scared. Later …. that’s another matter.
Too many to tell.
Ditto, a few motorcycles, close calls, mostly cars coming at me at high speed from the other direction IN My lane on two lane blacktop
Worst and best scary ride in a ’76 MG Midget: Coming down I-95 in 1979 to Philadelphia at speed (about 60mph then) in the right hand lane toward my exit, I was passed on the left by an older, big GM sedan doing 85+. Only about 50 to 70 yards ahead of me that car’s rear rose high toward the sky and the complete rear axle and differential blew off the car and disintegrated all over the 3 lane highway. And I found myself in a randomly laid out pylon race dodging across all 3 lanes to avoid spinning GM parts. I hit my “hazard” button to alert those behind and then saw an opening toward my exit ramp an came to atop on the ramp’s grass siding. Amazingly, no cars collided with the Sedan’s wreckage. I was thrilled I had escaped, too, and that my MG Midget was so agile it probably saved me. Had I been in my ’73 Chevy Nova SS 396 that day, I’m sure I would have plowed into something. Oh, did have to clean a lot of oil spray off the car widescreen to drive home.
As an MGB owner there were no 1973 396 Nova’s.
You’re correct, I think Dad’s 73 Nova had the next size up from a 307, probably a 350? My cousin put the black SS tags, decals I think, on the front fenders when I went grad school in DC. When did they drop the 396? I remember them and 454s into the 70s in Chevelles.
The 1973 Nova had factory engines of the 250 L6, 307-2V, 350-2V, 350-4V, if I recall correctly. My 1973 had the 350-2V, and moved quite well in the late-1970’s, especially after putting on a dual-exhaust system with “turbo” mufflers. In a straight line, it would – incredibly – keep up with a 1977 Trans Am – not in the corners, though!
I believe that the last model year for a factory-installed 396 was 1969; seems like I recall the 402 replacing it in 1970.
Sue wish I had a’73 Nova now, especially the hatchback version they made around then. I can’t stand SUV’s, though I’ve had one, as my hatchbacks, mostly Saabs, were much more fun to drive. and carried large loads. The Nova was a solid road car and held up for a long time and many, many miles until Dad finally traded it for a whale of late ’70’s Chevy Caprice. Had he asked me, I would have bought it from him.
Wow! Like others so many. Stuck WOT on 283 Chev fitted M38A1 up on two wheels. Only damage was my nerves, new resonators; backfire blew them apart and a second throttle spring. White knuckling a 4 speed ’70 Camaro open diff through a No. Cali, So. Oregon blizzard on I5. A white wall of snow. What mean ‘Chains Only’? Driving I95 directly west of Charleston at midnight as Hugo came ashore. A green wall of tree fall.
I found out the hard way at 18 years olds my mom’s ’72 VW Squareback (Type 3) will hydroplane around 50 MPH in heavy rain as the engine is in the back. I was driving a straight section of road and wanted to change lanes. I turned the steering wheel and the car kept going straight. I turned it the other direction and the car kept going straight. I probably turned ghost white and panicked as I thought the steering broke. I let off the gas and eventually I was able to control the car after it slowed. I never told my mom as I don’t think she would have ever again lent me her car after telling her I came close to wrecking her car that day.
I once “borrowed” my Mom’s ’66 Impala and backed into somebody’s plastic grill, breaking it and bending the aluminum trim around her left taillight. Nothing scary about the 2-mph bump, but I was surely terrified about what my folks were gonna do when/if they found out (they did). 😮
Scariest times in a car… Let’s see – snow in an MGB, snow again in an MGB, high rate of speed and a bump in a 66 T-bird, 2 wheel drive rental truck on a 4 wheel drive gravel mountain road with no guard rail and a 1200′ sheer drop – and did I mention sliding backwards… and Sebring TNIA with the Miata in the rain with semi slicks going through Bishops at 85…..
I thought I was a very experienced driver back when I was 16, since I had been driving such a long time by then. One day I gave a couple of my friends a ride home when we got out of school early because of an extremely rare Alabama snow event. I turned onto a two-lane road that went down a slight incline with deep ditches on both sides, and I thought it would be cute to cut the steering wheel hard to the right and scare them. That’s when my ’64 Ford Falcon with no power steering started to slide around on the snow. Out of sheer luck, I managed to keep the car from going off into the ditch and we all laughed nervously and I didn’t offer any more rides home after that.
I was at Seras Point racetrack with The BMW club driving my 1976 2002. It had a stock engine but lots of handling mods. It was a driving school so I had an instructor next to me. I considered myself a good driver and had placed well in many competitive driving events. It was the end of the day and my instructor had gained confidence in my driving and convinced me that I could not outpower my suspension. So on one of the last laps we came down the hill barreling into turn 8 which is a very fast right hand sweeper the car was set on the right place on the track and it started a perfectly balanced 4 wheel drift to the left towards an off track experience. I was on the gas since the instructor convinced me it was ok. Don’t forget this was a tired 1976 CA smog motor with maybe 90 HP. We drifted perfectly to the edge of the track but not off the track at about 80 to 90 mph. The entire time we were in the drift the instructor was screaming repeatedly DONT LET OFF THE GAS!!! I know if I had let off the gas the weight would have shifted and we would have spun. Best 10 10ths experience I have ever had. Glad it didn’t go to 11 10ths it was my daily driver. He was a great instructor and that day I was a great driver.
My Lord, that brought to mind my own experience with a Ford Escort. Driving northbound on I-75 from a college football game with three passengers. Dry road, doing 65-70 in left lane and cut off by some jerk trying to merge from right. No way he saw me (benefit of the doubt), I cranked right and steering into the turn, slid sideways in both lanes for a couple hundred yards, then attempting to recover, still ended up in the median which allowed the yelling to stop and my heart to find its way back into my chest. Drove out and carried my friends and me on our way home. That Escort handled like a champ. Only wishing I’d find that guy to throttle him for the year of life he’d taken from me.