Teen Daze Jan 30, 2008
A carload of boys died last weekend, victims of pride, excess, the invulnerability of youth, poor parental supervision… you name it. They went 150 mph off the end of an airport runway, and flew half a football field before they met up with one of the venerable old oaks we call “grandaddy” oaks in this part of the world. Score: Oak Tree 5, Boys 0.
When I was younger and more arrogant, never mind more callous, I would have made a flippant comment here about the “culling of the herd.” This story almost demands that kind of comment: Five kids aged 18 to 20, piloting a brand-new BMW M5 down the runway of an exclusive fly-in community late at night (or early in the morning), the driver an oft-ticketed braggart who spent time online the day of his death detailing his excesses. Easy: They were asking for it.
But I’m older now, with kids of my own. And somehow, the years that have passed have brought me full circle, to the point where I feel closer to my high school days than at any point since their end. I guess I couldn’t get through my conservative private college with a ready memory of who I’d just been, or maybe we just put away childish things that perfectly, once they’re ended. Until we’re older, that is, until we pause and reflect. Until we’re comfortable enough with who we are to discuss who we used to be.
I was the kind of kid teachers point to as a model kid in high school—socially awkward, academically advanced, the perfect pairing of innocence and ambition. That’s how I remember myself, too… at some point you start believing your own P.R. The truth, however, was a little less black-and-white. In truth, I WAS academically advanced and socially awkward, which meant I was the perfect candidate for illegal drug and alcohol use. Nothing combats boredom and shyness like a slug of Jack Daniels. Or five. I didn’t have access to luxury cars or private airstrips, but I certainly did my time as a passenger in cars driven by an unsavory assortment of drunks, stoners, users, and other not-so-good choices. I lived to (not) tell the tale, as I suspect most of us have.
As my children approach this most vulnerable age, I hope I’ll be aware enough of what it was like to anticipate some of those bad choices before they make them all over again, and help them steer away, but I’m realistic enough to realize I won’t always be there. And they won’t always make the right choices, either—that’s what it means to be a child.
I could use this example to point out that we, as enthusiasts, should keep a sharp eye out for kids like the young M5 driver and try to offer them counsel, or that we need to continue to lobby for safe, sanctioned venues so these youngsters can learn car control AND get their ya-ya’s out, but in the end I can only hope, as any parent does, that I’ve taught my children well enough to minimize their wrong decisions, and that when they do make them, they don’t pay for them with their lives.
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