March 7, 1992 was an unseasonably warm day in Kansas City, Missouri. As often happens, those early season warm spells make minds turn to summery pursuits – lawn mowing, rec room pool games, late evening backyard football… I was 17 at the time after all. It was the spring of my junior year in high school and life was carefree and easy. Except for one thing: I had no car. Unfortunately for my mom, the location of our suburban house honestly offered no way to get around without one. I say unfortunately because just a couple of months earlier, I had failed to yield the right-of-way while driving her car and wrecked it… pretty good. That car was fixed, but I still had to get to my grocery store job somehow and the family taxi service didn’t enjoy the 11:30 PM run after work.
Something had to give.
Imagine, if you will, a happy family on a road trip vacation in scenic northern New Mexico. Dad driving a nearly brand-new, German engineered ‘bahn-burner, mom enjoying the scenery out the window, and young son in the back seat enjoying the afterglow of a delicious waffle breakfast.