A father reflects on childhood memories with his Dad
By: Aaron Vick Starnes
For a split second, my stomach floated weightless in my gut, just like at the top of a roller coaster drop. The four tires of my father’s red Isuzu Space Cab pickup had left the gravel road and were mid-air, arcing toward terra firma. When the truck landed, all three Boy Scouts, and the grown boy behind the wheel, grinned, laughed, and agreed it was the best jump yet.
We were headed to the campsite which was at the end of a dirt road that wound through 2,500 acres that the Boy Scouts of America used for the betterment of young men. In an effort to keep the speed down on long straight stretches of this road, whoever was in charge elected to build, or more likely elected to use free teenage labor to build improvised earthen speed bumps. In my mind’s eye, these mounds rose two and a half feet tall or so and stretched the width of the one lane gravel road. Nobody in their right mind would take one at speed. My dad would tilt to them like a modern-day Texan Quixote with enough speed to momentarily liberate the truck from the Earth in a flourish of gravel dust.
I was used to this. There was a poorly (or maybe perfectly) designed bridge on a back road near our house. When you hit it at 65 or so, the suspension would compress at the bottom of the approach and rebound at the top launching the car. The wheels would touch down again on the far side of the bridge.
His parents lived down a labyrinth of gravel roads in rural Texas. When we’d go visit, my dad would powerslide through each corner. The feeling of sliding sideways in a car never gets old. He pulled off all these wild maneuvers with poise and control. He also wrecked more cars than anyone I’ve ever met. There was the Saturn, the F-150, the Isuzu, etc. I was only in a couple of those accidents. As far as I know, it never occurred to him that launching your daily driver might not be the best idea. His brother tells a story about a time he wrecked three cars in one day. He got the first one stuck in a creek, then thrashed two more trying to get it out. That has to be some kind of record.
When I was a boy, he took me to a monster truck rally. It’s one of the most vivid memories I have from my childhood. The huge tires, the smoke, the sideshow vehicles like the fire-breathing, car-eating robot dinosaur. And of course, the noise! All that fuel turned into horsepower and hydrocarbons right before my young eyes, creating an unearthly racket that invaded my ears (no hearing protection, it was the ’90s) and rattled my little chest.
When the time came to teach us kids how to drive, my mother’s temperament proved too tightly wound to tolerate the inevitable and innumerable close calls teen drivers have. When she was in the passenger seat, the tension in the car was palpable. So the task fell to my father. He taught my sister to drive stick by taking her to the steepest hill for miles which just so happened to have a stop sign at the crest. A hard lesson for sure, but to this day the girl can drive a manual.
As I learned, I remember waiting until the last possible moment to brake each time I’d turn left off the two-lane highway a mile from the house. He’d say, “you’re scaring the bejeebers out of me.” I still don’t know what a bejeeber is. Once, I was maybe 15, he let me take the wheel of his tan on green F-150 on the gravel roads leading to his parents’ house. I wanted to step the tail-end out like I’d seen him do so many times. Trouble is, he never told me how he did it. So I ended up carrying way too much speed into the corner and skidding into a ditch. He was not happy. I didn’t know what to call it then, but that was probably my first experience with understeer. It wouldn’t be my last.
My dad died at the end of March 2019. Before that, he was sick for more than a decade. Doctors called it frontal lobe dementia. I witnessed his decline at home and eventual move to an assisted living facility. He spent his last six years there, in a gradually worsening state of confusion.
Years later, I’m still working out what his death means to me. One thing has become clear: I’m much more like him than I ever imagined, and the reckless driving shenanigans of my youth are a direct result of the adventures we shared.
He had a feral streak and a tendency for mischief he never really grew out of. To my knowledge, he was not a deep thinker or a terribly sensitive guy. He was the impulsive older brother to my two aunts and two uncles, and a lot of the time I think he treated me more like a little brother than a son. When he was young, he was remarkably clever at taking apart non-functioning machinery and electronics , diagnosing their malady, and bringing them back to life.
My dad and I didn’t see eye to eye on most things. Whether due to his illness or some inborn stubbornness, he was often difficult to communicate with. Still, I have to thank him. Thanks for the handful of events he took me to that helped shape my love of cars: the arena-cross races where he did his best to explain the difference between two- and four-stroke dirt bikes; the Volkswagen meet in Waxahachie when I was 14 or 15, where I saw a ’60s-era VW Transporter pull a wheelie on the drag strip; and the ride in a bizarre bug made to look like a blue whale, complete with a CO2-activated spout and a tail that moved up and down as the car rolled along. Thanks, too, for exposing me to fine cinema like Smokey and the Bandit and the chase scenes in the classic Bond films.
Finally, I have to thank him for whatever genetic anomaly he passed down that made me mechanically inclined. Whether by nature or nurture, I also inherited his feral impulsiveness—which took time, but I’ve mostly got it under control. I wish he could have seen me become a dad. I wish he were here, fully in command of his faculties, to appreciate his grandson.
Life is weird. I understand now why I automatically reach for the traction control button when I turn down a gravel road. Even though he’d never be nominated for father of the year, I have love for my dad. I don’t wish I had a different childhood, because without it, I wouldn’t have this story to tell. But I won’t be drifting or jumping my truck with my son and his friends on board… probably.
About the Author
Aaron Starnes is a father, English teacher, small business owner, and award-winning automotive writer with a penchant for greasy knuckles and well-turned phrases. His work has appeared in Jalopnik, ROVA, Grassroots Motorsports, and a smattering of other travel and car publications. He once ran a car review site recognized by the Texas Auto Writers Association and now spends his days shaping young minds and old upholstery.
He lives in Texas, where he runs @aaronstarnesllc, raises his family, and still finds time to hit the road now and then.
Follow his ongoing adventures at @the_dirtoncars.
