Other people's cars. I've had encounters with more of them than I care to count, frequently driving them to auction, as I did a dealership owner's '54 MG-TD; I managed this because I was one of maybe two people in the dealership who could manage a non-synchromesh "crash box" without destroying said gearbox in the process. It was one of the most terrifying rides of my life. Y'see MG-TDs are blessed with only slightly more horsepower than your average farm tractor, and only a four-speed gearbox, plus numerically-high rear-end gearing. What does this mean? First of all, it means that the top speed is in the mid-60s; at the 55 mph I was cruising at, the engine was screaming along at around 5000 rpm. So....loud, no side windows, (the side curtains were behind me, and since it wasn't raining, I didn't feel like stopping to put them on,) and a pronounced buffeting by crosswinds, especially when a semi rolled by. The gymnastics required to manuever my 6-foot-plus frame behind the gigantic steering wheel of this thing was no picnic, either. Other cars, it seems, wanted to kill me as well; another dealership General Sales Manager was sending his '73 Corvette to auction, and once again, I got drafted, I think simply on pure faith on the part of the manager. This beast's 454-cubic-inch big-block was chomping at the bit, but I had to keep it reined under 80 mph to avoid coming home with any unpleasant surprises, if you know what I mean. Worse than that was about a 3/4-inch-or-so "dead spot" in the middle of the steering wheel; move the wheel in this range, and it would have absolutely NO effect on vehicle direction. Your brain is just going, "oh, God, I'm gonna die." Obviously I didn't. And having driven other 70s-era Corvettes, I forgot this is pretty much standard for them. Silly me. I've driven Porsche Carreras, Turbo models included, a BMW M-Roadster, (essentially a Mazda Miata on steroids,) a full-on, military-grade H1 Hummer, perhaps the most senselessly wide vehicle I have ever been in in my life, many BMW and Mercedes sedans, (the athleticism of BMW sedans is most assuredly NOT overrated,) and an '86-or-so Buick Riviera that shook like a Magic Fingers bed at freeway speeds. I drove an '89 Ford Probe GT with a bad alternator that was going to auction; to get it all the way to its destination before the battery went flat required me to post triple-digit speeds all the way there. And being a Probe GT of that era, I also had to mind the torque steer, an inbred condition of powerful front-wheel-drive cars that threatens to punt you into the next lane involuntarily when you nail the throttle. And whomever approved the interior ergonomics of 90s-model Range Rovers should dragged out and shot; the dashboard is strewn with so many dials, icons and other incomprehensible detritus, you need to sit down with the owner's manual before you ever touch it. Never mind the power window switches. Common sense dictates (to most of us, anyway,) that the button closest to the driver's window is the one that will open said window. Not the case here; touch that one, and it is the driver's-side REAR window that will slide gently down. The one BEHIND that one opens the front window. 2000-ish Lincoln Town Car Cartier-L's, the extended-length ones frequently used by limousine companies, have controls for the passenger's side front seat in the rear center arm rest, which seems almost diabolically elitist. More? Subaru's early-90s SVX, their earliest attempt at a sports car, had only a small PORTION of the window that rolled up and down. Americans, sensing that getting their three Big Macs and two large fries from the drive-through should not be a "call 911" experience, stayed away in droves. Other experiences? The red SAAB convertible, and a trip from Grand Rapids to Lansing on a perfect spring day, that inspired my novel (I'll get it out someday, I swear.) A '69 Buick Riviera I was taken to task for driving without a dealer plate, after about a week of driving it to lunch. Resplendent in duct tape and white house paint, that thing still pulled like a train with its big, burly 430-cubic-inch, 4-barrel V8. Complete with chrome air cleaner lid. Those were unquestionably the days. I have taught in Korea. I taught my daughters to roller skate, which I considered to be a basic, important life lesson--if you fall, you get back up again and keep trying. And now, particularly with a father who has Lewy Body Dementia, and has not much memory left of his life's achievements, I would not change a moment of anything I have done. Because I fear the time will come when I am the same way; a mostly-scooped-out pumpkin of a human being who cannot even giggle at the ride he has taken, because he doesn't recall very much of it. Your activism serves the world, but it does not change the fact that you will die. You don't know when, or where, or how, so it's still best, in my opinion to have something in your life to giggle about, or be proud of, or simply say, "I did that," as you wait in line at St. Peter's Gate. (I expect there will be a queue there; some things just seem unavoidable.) Live well. Live every day as a blessing, because it is. Take chances. Because even in the event that you don't remember any of it, someone else might. Bloodlines and good stories. There ain't much else in the end.