Driving With Big Daddy - A Tribute to Russ

Today marks the 10th anniversary of the loss of my father-in law. Russ. Big Daddy. He was as much or more of a father to me than my own Pop. He was my biggest fan and that’s saying a lot, considering what it took to win him over. 

 About fifteen years ago, on one of those those idyllic Colorado spring days that beckons one to go for a drive in the mountains, he called. That usually meant no one else would go with him.  Next thing I knew, I was riding shotgun in his 1987 Buick Park Avenue. We were “out on an errand”, typically a six-hour loop around the state to eventually stop, pick up and throw away junk mail from his old business P.O. Box. He had been diagnosed with ALS and the onset of its symptoms was beginning to take its toll. It made the rest of the family, especially those with kids, quite nervous driving with him. Not me, no siree. 

 Not even after that time at Christmas, when we were on a three hour errand for a box of chocolates in a blizzard. We were headed up University Ave to the chocolatiers shop in Cherry Creek when the old man in the car in front of us braked without warning or blinker. Russ rear-ended him real good. Send him sliding. I knew it was an old man driving because I could see his little porkpie hat sticking up over the back of the seat. Barely. Then, he put on his blinker and inched around the corner at the speed of a glacier. We followed him just in time to avoid another rear-ender from the honking car behind us. Russ struggled to get his door open and even more to get out of the car to stand up using the door and the roof as support. The old man in front of us had at least as much trouble. He took one look back at Russ. They both cracked a little smile, nodded at one another and got back in their cars. Not a word spoken. I was dumbfounded.

“Common courtesy” Dad remarked. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. 

We headed south on CO 285 towards Bailey. Two Chicago dogs and a few hours later we were heading down Guanella Pass into Georgetown. That pungent smell of burning asbestos filled the car, a clear indication that the brakes were cooking and well on their way to catching on fire and complete failure. I casually mentioned in a low voice that maybe he should not be riding them so hard since we still had another five miles or so to the bottom of the pass.

Another voice, the one in my head, was screaming that the descent would be getting a lot steeper and the turns even tighter. I suppressed that one. He smiled to himself, humbly took my advice and slowly slid his foot off of the brake pedal where it was resting over to the accelerator. 

Whoops. My bad. 

He’d lost much of the feeling in his feet and couldn’t really feel the weight he was putting on the pedals. As we headed into the next hairpin turn, the tires began to squeal as the car picked up speed. This Buick was showing well over 270 thousand miles on the odometer and it had a tendency to understeer severely. The next turn was one with no guardrail and infinity came clearly into view to the north, just as we crossed over the centerline. My hand began to squeeze the arm rest and my right foot instinctively pressed against the floorboard so hard I nearly rolled an ankle. Yet, here he was, still accelerating. I glanced over and could see the look of panic spreading across his face. 

Now, I was officially alarmed. 

 That's when he let go of the wheel with his right hand. Grabbing the pant leg of his polyester trousers, that same leg that was still pressing on the accelerator, he yanked. Hard. In a single motion, he jerked it to the left and landed it squarely on the brake pedal. Tires still squawking, (and luckily no traffic in the oncoming lane) we hit the dirt on the outside shoulder. He stayed the course until the Buick caught traction and bumped back onto the pavement. We crossed back over the double yellow back to the safety of our own lane. Perfect. Or as they say in the rest of the world; Goaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal! 

 40 or 50 similar turns later we found ourselves sitting safely at the bar in the Happy Cooker in Georgetown. The Buick sat there outside, its brakes smoking for the next 30 minutes. There at the bar, we recanted the trouser pulling events and we laughed. I was sworn to secrecy. That pant leg grabbing action became the MO for a stubborn father-in-law driving with ALS, but the payoff was worth the risk. 

The bond that formed between us in sharing these perilous trips lasted until he passed away in 2011 and continues on today. 

If this kind of reckless 'speeding-vehicle-to-the-gravel-at-the-edge-of-the-abyss' driving makes you queasy, the Pikes Peak International Hill Climb is most assuredly not your kind of event. But for many of those who compete, organize, volunteer, photograph or spectate, it's the only event. It is pure racing nirvana. Americana at its finest. I love being a part of it, but descending Pikes Peak with Dad driving the Buick? I don’t think so. Guanella Pass is as close as I got. 

But, man. Do I ever miss those rides with Dad.