I’m ready for my robot chauffeur

I’ve hated driving since the day I received my license. Unlike most teenage boys, I didn’t spend the night before my 16th birthday sleeping in the backseat of my parents’ Country Squire station wagon, waiting for that magic moment when I became street legal.

I enjoyed driving for a day or two, because mobility equalled freedom. Freedom to get away from my crazy family for a few hours, freedom to leave the neighborhood, freedom to introduce my girlfriend, Dianne, to the wonders to be found on deserted country two-tracks.

But the thrill didn’t last. Well, maybe that’s not true with regard to Dianne and the two-track … but every other aspect of driving soon grew tedious.

Part of it early on had to do with the car I was driving, a 1964 Beetle that needed to be push-started every morning.

A string of equally luxurious automobiles came after the bug. Most of the time I could have afforded something better, but I just didn’t care enough about my ride to spend the money.

I might have invested in a vehicle with more paint than rust, but I sang in a rock & roll band and therefore didn’t need a cool car to get girls. So instead I spent the money on leather pants and new guitars (this was the ‘70s, remember). 

Long trips, even during times I owned nice cars, were nightmare-city for me. The idea of being cooped up behind the wheel of a vehicle just scares the bejeebers out of me.

It’s not that I’m especially claustrophobic (though I am), it’s that I hate paying attention to anything for extended periods of time. This lack of attentiveness was my bane in ninth-grade algebra class and has been a problem for me as a motorist my whole life.

My mind wanders. I miss freeway exits, the occasional stop sign, guardrails along steep mountain passes. My highway speed — when I’m not using cruise control — fluctuates from 32 mph to 80.

I am a menace.

Which is why I’m so geeked by the idea of self-driving cars. I keep reading about them and with every article I read, I get more excited. Several major car companies are testing them, as is Google. Most of the testing is going on in California, apparently; I’m not sure why. 

As I understand it, there have been a few accidents, but none the fault of the self-driving technology. It’s been human error. Humans like me.

Frankly, my robot chauffeur can’t be delivered soon enough. I’m more than ready to stretch out in the backseat, put my feet up and watch the countryside roll by while Robbie does the driving.

My only regret is the technology didn’t come along sooner, back when I was still dating Dianne. It’s harder for cops to shine that flashlight into a moving vehicle.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

From brown to gray – riding with the kids and its affect on hair

I was in court this morning, lending moral support and questionable legal advice to my youngest son, age 17. James is a good kid, but one with dubious driving skills and a right foot that’s apparently too heavy to maintain the exact posted speed limit.

The infraction that landed him before the prosecutor was exceedingly minor, so much so that the case was dismissed, sans fine, jail time, points, or a speedy execution. James was relieved, as he had been lead to believe (by me) that the judge might hand down any or all of those sentences, depending on his mood.

A good scare goes a long way toward lightening that right foot, I believe.

I’m hoping in the future he’ll be more careful.

But the truth is, of my three kids James is probably the safest driver. My older children, Aubreii and Jordan, both in their mid-twenties, represent the kind of traffic menace rarely seen outside movies starring Sylvester Stallone or Bruce Willis.

I’m thinking about this now because I just returned from a weekend visit to Detroit, where Aubreii and Jordan now both reside. Jordan was working the big auto show there as a GMC rep, so I spent most of the weekend with my daughter.

My pickup seats only two and we had the grandkids with us most of the time, so Aubreii drove … through Detroit traffic … on icy, snowy roads … with screaming toddlers in the backseat … and the radio blasting … and the GPS yakking its digital head off in a futile effort to get Aubreii to turn at the proper intersections.

Tires squealed. I squealed. Cars swerved. Impolite hand gestures were exchanged.

And through it all, my darling daughter barely batted an eyelash. As my grasping fingers disappeared into the dashboard, she chatted unconcernedly about her new clients, the kids’ teachers and the interesting interview she heard recently on This American Life.

From time to time, she would glance at the road, but it was obvious the view didn’t hold much interest for her.

To make matters worse, my daughter drives one of those fuel-efficient, tiny Japanese cars. I’ve picked bigger things off the back of a hound dog. After years of looking down on traffic from the seat of my pickup, I feel incredibly vulnerable riding in any car that offers a clear view of the underside of most semi trailers.

Finally, there’s the fact that everyone in Detroit – every driver, at least – is actively trying to kill me.

Now, I lived in Detroit for years and got used to the traffic there. I’m sure there was a time when I drove like they all do. (Insanely.)

But for the past 15 years or so I’ve made my home in a town that makes Mayberry look like Manhattan. The only traffic problem I’m used to is slow-moving Amish buggies. Seriously, I can walk faster than the speed limit in my tiny burg.

So Detroit, my daughter, her Barbie-mobile … they all took their toll this past weekend.

I wonder if that Grecian Formula stuff really gets rid of grey hair.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or driving tips for teenagers, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.