Yahoo Autos Your Car Stories – High Speeds, Police Encounters, and Smashed Fiats
We asked you to send us your car stories so we could share them with the world—and send them you did. We thank the dozens of people who wrote in, and, after sifting through your handiwork, we've chosen the following seven amusing anecdotes.
We welcome these scribes to the community of published automotive authors! For their trouble, they'll each get a gift from the Car and Driver memento closet (thanks for helping us get rid of this junk).
These stories make us want to hear more, so we're asking again: send us your car stories! They can be funny, sad, scary, romantic, amazing, cool, positive, or negative—anything that in some way involves cars.
Tell it to us in 200 words or fewer—yes, we're doubling the word count from last time, because we know how hard it is to write something interesting in just a few words. We'll share the best stories on CarandDriver.com. But please don't waste your time and ours with anything smutty, because we'll hit delete immediately. We will correct your spelling and grammar, however; it's just what we do. And if you have a photo that relates to your story, send it along; we might run that, too.
Send your car story to us at YourCarStory@caranddriver.com. We can't wait to hear from you!
And here are the winners from Round 1:
He Should Have Listened
I'm retired now, but I was a California Highway Patrol officer in South Los Angeles for 28 years. Early in my career, I was on my way back to the office on a Saturday night after a long shift and a longer week. A driver was weaving up ahead, and I pulled him over, praying that he wasn't drunk, which would have extended my shift by several hours.
He wore a neck brace and appeared out of it. He stammered, "I'm sorry, real sorry." He was sober but had suffered a head injury in a recent accident. He had no insurance, and his license had been suspended. Normally, I might have had the car towed. But his wife and child were in the car and the neighborhood wasn't the best, so I allowed his wife to drive the car and admonished him not to drive.
The following Monday morning, I was dressed in my best suit, driving my used but freshly painted Z/28 on my way to court in downtown L.A. Traffic was heavy, and I got rear-ended. When I walked up to the car that had hit me, the driver said, "I'm sorry, real sorry." He was wearing a neck brace. Out of the thousands of cars on the Harbor freeway that morning, I was hit by the same guy I had let go 36 hours earlier on a street 15 miles away!
"I told you not to drive," I yelled. He slowly recognized me and stammered, "I'll pay for it," to which I replied, "You don't have insurance!" This time, I called a tow truck to haul his car away, shook my head, and went on to court. For the next week, nobody got a break on my beat.
John Tye/CHP South Los Angeles (ret.)
It Was a GR8V8
As a chemist who ran a research-and-development lab at Texas Instruments in the late 1970s to mid-1980s, I had access to all the analytical equipment I needed to engineer my own gasoline octane booster—which I did. I used it in a 1979 Camaro Z/28 that I built up to about 700 hp. One day on Highway 114 just past the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, I decided to top out the car. At about 140 mph, I saw the lights of a Texas Department of Public Safety patrol car flash. I brought my car to a stop, and when the trooper came up to my window, I asked, "Am I going to jail?" He answered, "No. What have you got in that car? It sounded like a jet!" I popped the hood, and we proceeded to gaze at the engine, which looked like something out of Hot Rod magazine. I asked if he would let me off. He said no. Instead, he wrote me for 105 mph in a 55-mph zone. Ouch! It was a $430 ticket—a lot of money in 1984. The result? I sold the Camaro, bought a Corolla, and paid an extra $9500 for insurance over the course of the next five years. Today, I still have fast cars, but I watch carefully when doing the lead-foot bit.
Larry Venable
My Reversal of Fortune
I was just 17 at the time and in my first car, a bright-yellow 1966 Plymouth Barracuda. I was headed home from a summer camping trip, and my gas gauge quit working. I knew the car was close to running out of fuel, so my genius idea was to put the automatic transmission into neutral and coast down every hill on the interstate to conserve as much gas as possible. This was not very wise, as the shifter lacked any sort of lockout to prevent me from shifting into reverse if I moved the lever too far too fast—a fact I soon confirmed. On the very last long downhill a mile before my exit, I attempted to ease the shifter into neutral once again at about 70 mph. This time, I moved it just a bit too far, putting the car in reverse, which locked the rear tires. I did two 360s. I got the car straightened out, pulled over, calmed down, and proceeded home. The transmission lasted another year.
Adam Holbrook
They Asked Me for a Smoke
It was 30 years ago. After finishing a stereo installation on my hopped-up, 500-hp, 1971 Boss 351 Mustang, I figured a late-night listening session was in order. So I headed for Jones Beach. Of course, on the way, I got pulled over. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to bring my license, registration, and proof of insurance. Luckily, the cop was a motorhead and, noticing the line-lock switch on my shift handle, offered me a deal. "Do a good enough smoke show, and I'll let you go," he said. By that time, two of his fellow police-officer buddies were there, also checking out the Boss. So, I pulled out into the middle of the road with three cops behind me blocking all the lanes, with their lights flashing, and I smoked out the street. When the smoke cleared, I headed to the beach with Judas Priest blaring into the night.
Jonathan C. Bergman
Arrivederci, Fenders!
One morning in Rome, Italy, I stepped outside my hotel into a narrow alley. I watched as a newish Fiat approached the old brick building across the street. The car was virtually as wide as the narrow garage door it was headed for. There was no way it would make it through without a lot of maneuvering. I just had to watch how the old lady behind the wheel planned to negotiate the situation. She didn't even pretend to try to be careful. She drove the left front fender hard into the door frame. Foot firmly on the accelerator, she screeched and crunched forward. I laughed as the right rear quarter-panel suffered the same fate as the front fender. That tough old lady clearly had no intention of wasting a single second worrying about the condition of her car.
Nik Kave
A Smashing Send-Off
My first car was the first car my dad had bought new: a 1985 Honda Accord. After my father succumbed to cancer, my uncle kept the car until it died. Years later, I "bought it back" by paying for all the parts needed to rebuild it and by providing the labor to get the job done on the weekends. Nearly four years and $5000 later, I had a running, 20-year-old car. It lasted me all of seven months. While parked, it was hit hard enough to push it five feet and rip off the front end. Rather than let it go silently into that good night, family and friends gathered to pay our respects and let the old car give us one last gift: it became a huge piñata that let us blow off steam with a sledgehammer.
Brian J. Garrity
It Was Her, Really
In summer 2007, I was driving from Middletown, Connecticut, to Mystic. Just outside Middletown, I was passed by a gold Mercedes 500SL convertible doing 90 mph. It was driven by a woman with long, black hair. Curious, I decided to follow. I wanted to pass to see who it was, but it was all I could do to keep on her tail. I thought I would get popped at that rate. We ran the last 30 miles to Mystic at about 90, and, approaching the town, I was finally able to pull alongside. As I drew even, my suspicion was confirmed: the driver was none other than Danica Patrick. I never told anyone this before; after all, who would believe that story?
Charlie Francisco
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