I have two first car stories....I was a jr. in high school, spring of 1968. I and four other guys chipped in $10 to buy a 1952 DeSoto. It ran fine. When we were picking it up, someone said, we ought to put a sun roof in it. We were buying it from a guy who owned a construction company. He grabbed a cutting torch, jumped up on the roof, and started cutting out a huge opening (without even asking). That worked great, but: it caught the upholstery on fire. We got a kitchen chair, cut off most of the legs, and it was the drivers seat. There was no way to cover the roof if it rained. We dubbed it "Poptop". We painted idiotic slogans on it. NONE of our parents knew about this, and it had no insurance (easy to get away with in Kansas in the 60's). Looking back, it seems totally insane and dangerous.
Finally, it was my turn to take it home. I parked it around the block from my house.
Next morning, the police showed up at my house. The people whose house I had parked it in front of were complaining because their minister was coming over...doesn't seem like a police action thing to me, but it was.
My parents were outraged that I had done this.
They told me to take the car to a junkyard and get rid of it (I think it was in my name?) My friend and I decided that it would be an adventure to take it to Kansas City (about 60 miles from where we lived in Topeka, KS), sell it to a junkyard and take a bus home. When we got to KC, we couldn't find a junkyard. No google...we decided to drive back home.
We picked up a hippie couple who were hitchhiking. They were headed to San Francisco. It was the "summer of love" (or was that actually a year or two before). Somehow (and yes: this sounds even more insane than having the car in the first place), my friend and I thought it would really be cool to go to San Fran, and offered to drive them. I'd had no thoughts of running away from home until that moment, it just sounded like a cool adventure.
We got an I 70 and went about 125 miles when the car broke down (later, I learned that all that happened was that the plastic rotor cap was broken and fell off: an easy fix). Our traveling companions had already begun having doubts that this trip with us was a good idea, anyway, and took off.
We left the car by the side of the road and decided to hitch hike home.
Shortly after we'd crosse the road and stuck out our thumbs, the highway patrol picked us up and called our parents.
Boy, was I ever in trouble. My parents made me start going to a shrink. And with 60 years of hindsight, I can't say that I blame them. What we did was SO irresponsible, dangerous, ill-conceived (I had maybe $10), impractical and idiotic that what could they do but think me insane. And so Poptop wound up in the junkyard, even thought it actually ran really well. It, by the way, had a very early automatic transmission, that was operated by dashboard push buttons.
WHAT was I thinking?