About the time all of us decided it was time for Dad to surrender his driver’s license was when he said, “I’ve been driving for almost 50 years and have never had an accident.”


     As he was uttering his safe-driver soliloquy, the car he was driving — my car — plowed over two curbs on Perez Street. I honestly believe Dad had indeed been involved in (minor) accidents but possibly didn’t consider them worth discussing — or remembering.
     When Mom demanded Dad surrender his keys she told some of us offspring that the week before, Dad had sideswiped two cars and a mailbox at the old post office. In those days, the Œ60s, the Las Vegas Post Office was located in what is now the City Schools Administration Building. Many drivers coming from the east would execute a you-ee in front of the old Douglas Elementary School to get into position to mail a letter in the outside mailbox.
     But those people generally executed the u-turn after pulling quite a way to the right, not — as in my father’s case — attempting the turn from the middle of the street and performing the maneuver on two wheels. Dad never mentioned this bit of damage to any of us siblings, and we heard the story from Mom only after Dad’s death in 1998.
     It’s somewhat painful and embarrassing, not to mention traitorous, to be divulging Dad’s driving record when he’s in no position to defend it. I think a lot of us covered up for him, lest he be deprived too early of his enjoyment, his freedom.
     I won’t mention any more close calls I’ve learned about, lest some reader just happens to recall, “Oh yes, I remember once in 1964 when J.D. Trujillo dented my fender. I wonder if his son would consider compensating me for that.”
     To my knowledge, Dad never injured anyone.
     Dad was not alone. Every town has its Mr. Magoos, who believe Hwy. 104 is really a speed limit, who aim their cars rather than steer them. Today, many of us have come across the driver who fails to signal, honks at every intersection, slows down just to see how long a line he can create behind him, and flips us off when we pass him.
     Russell Weller drew considerable attention two years ago when he drove his car through a crowded farmers market in Santa Monica, Calif. Ten people died and more than 40 were injured as his Buick sedan mowed down people and property in a three-block area. He hadn’t been drinking, nor was he impaired by medication; and he wasn’t filled with road rage.
     What may have accounted for the carnage? His age, 86, 11 years past the age in which most state motor vehicle departments begin issuing licenses one year at a time, following an eye exam. I’ll be in my seventies when my multi-year license expires.
     Vanee Lujan, office manager of the local motor vehicle division, gets asked questions all the time about drivers’ rights. Her office receives numerous complaints about other drivers. But rather than attempt to address every aspect of legal licensure, Lujan asks the rhetorical question: “Why don’t people who complain about elderly drivers help them instead?”
     That question is indeed innovative. It’s likely a great number of unsafe drivers, who may also happen to be elderly, would give up their driving privileges if, for example, a neighbor offered to pick up that person for errands, shopping, church and doctor visits.
     Walter Cronkite, himself an octogenarian, recently expressed his outrage at the Santa Monica calamity. But instead of urging lawmakers to strip all old people of their licenses, he questions the way cars are “packaged.” He wrote, “The new cars . . . look sleeker and promise performance hardly imaginable a decade or two ago. Several advertise road speeds of more than 150 miles an hour, although the sales literature doesn’t suggest where they should be driven at that speed.”
     The veteran retired CBS newsman suggests the elderly have no need for a car that “can accelerate from 0 to 60 miles an hour in eight seconds.”
     He’d like to see a lighter car, with clearly defined pedals so as not to be confused, even in a panic. And he suggests a top speed of 20 miles an hour.
     And why not? With about 80 million people older than 50, we’re going to be hearing about many more cases in which an incapacitated man or woman confused the brake with the gas and wreaked havoc on pedestrians or other motorists.
     In contrast to some of the motorized maneuvers we see today, maybe my dad wasn’t such a bad driver after all.
     And just this week we learned of a new study that shows that driving while operating a hands-free cell phone isn’t much safer than cradling it in one’s neck. It does very little to protect those on the road. And if, as some studies indicate, speaking on the phone while driving makes the driver as reckless as someone who’s consumed four beers, then we have trouble brewing.
     But that’s a subject for a later column.

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