Boy-Racing

When my baby hit 16, we looked up at this 6ft man, and wondered where he came from. The time from when I held a completely helpless little baby in my arms to this giant who had some resemblance to us, had flown faster than the space shuttle. We sank back in our chairs, perplexed.

In our corner of the world you can drive a car when you're that age. And these people, who look like adults, but where the brains are not fully working properly, can hop in any vehicle, step on the gas and be on the road at any time. We looked worried, on his 16th birthday, of that I'm sure. After one of our famous family-meetings my son decided , in order to keep us out of the hospital with heart failures,to postpone the car-driving a bit and take the bicycle instead. We sighed with relief. Until his 18th birthday. There were "babes" everywhere, he said, and in order to be "cool" you needed a "cool car". Not a bicycle. Since we're trying our darnest to be "cool" parents and want a "cool" son we decided to eventually go for it . Eventually, because first he needed lessons, and since I was the one with iron nerves, and available at all hours of the day to teach him the inside out of safe driving I was unanimously voted for.

6.30 pm On a Tuesday-evening we decided to give it a go, this first lesson. Son slid the seat back until he nearly ended up on the back-seat, in order to accommodate his large frame, his head against the ceiling of my small car. Secretly he was hoping none of the "babes" were around to see him. We drove off bunny-hopping, towards an industrial area where we could practice the fine art of 3 point turning and the like. Son was delighted to see the long stretch of empty tarmac ahead and his foot went down on the gas. "Whoopee,this is more like it!" he shouted over the asthmatic noise the poor little car, jolted out of semi-retirement was making. I was holding on for dear life, frantically tapping my non-existing brake pedal, since I was in the passenger-seat.

Ten days later we decided to hire a real driving-instructor. My nerves calmed down, the Prozac went back in the bathroom-cabinet and I was my serene self again. The driving-instructor was unflappable, no nonsense, and not interested in impressing possible "babes". She also had a break-pedal on her side of the car. And so son was taught to drive properly, and to stick to the speed-limt.

After a while we were confident that he was turning into a law-abiding driver and since we live in town, where there are speed-cameras and speed-limits everywhere we decided it was safe enough to buy him a good solid car. The instructions to the sales-man were clear: big bumpers and no car that goes over 50km per hour.In short a military tank would suit me just fine, to keep my baby safe. My son in the meantime had other plans and was looking at be-sticker-ed shiny vehicles (babe-magnets he called them) with exceptionally large exhaust-pipes only seen on a jumbo-jet. Black tinted windows and the car-bodies lowered so low, they were touching the ground, leaving me to wonder if they were not scraping the asphalt off the road, leaving trails.

Since I was paying, I pointed to a car that had "possibilities", and, more importantly, was in the budget. We decided to buy it. And then it all started.

Saturday-evening came and son was off: boy-racing. There is a long stretch of road in the middle of town, which is not too busy late at night. This is the chosen venue for so-called "boy-racers" (although it's not a boy-only thing, there are girls as well). Attired in sun-glasses, hood over his hair and over-priced (but brand) sneakers he went off. Apparently there were hundreds of these monk-like creatures ready to go roaring "but in a very safe way" as son tried to reassure us. We were not cuckolded, of course, we were not born yesterday. We were worried sick.

A couple of weeks later son and I were at the Police-station filling out a Lost-Item-paper. There were people going through a side-door. My son looked up, and pointed to a rather pretty Police-young lady, just going through this door. "Hey Mom, I know her" he said. "and that guy, and that one". "How do you know half of the Police-force here?" I asked somewhat fearfully. "They were at the boy-racing" he said. "Were they racing then?" Now that surprised me, although I'm not sure what the Police actually does do in their time off. "No, Mom, but they were standing next to the coolest car ever, and it looked as if it were theirs" . I had filled out my papers and we left the Police station. As we passed the "Private Parking for Police only" sign, the "coolest car ever" was parked right there.

Back at home, I started thinking. So they had under-cover Police Officers mixed in with the boy-racers! This was a very reassuring thought for worried parents. No wonder the (uniformed)Police was there in seconds when something went wrong. Since they couldn't stop it ( most boy-racers are hooked up to the Police-channel so they know when the Police is coming) they decided to "join" them! And since all teen-agers are permanently glued to a cell-phone anyway, it is not obvious if one of the undercovers rings the Police.

I have a couple of great ideas myself about this boy-racing. There are calls to give them their own track, outside the Town-boundaries on a vacant piece of land, in an industrial area, where the sleeping citizens in Town are not disturbed by the noise. Then they can burn their tires in peace and (not so) quiet. And I'll be there, every weekend,with a large "snack-truck" selling refreshments and hamburgers at inflated prices!