They Call Me Skidmark

What does a young man just about to turn 16 wait for the most? A hot girlfriend? maybe, but in reality it is the DRIVER’S LICENSE. The right of passage to manhood, the ultimate freedom sign. No longer having to beg for a ride somewhere, no longer having to hoof it from Hespeler to a party in Galt [remember folks in 1973 there was no Cambridge transit] no more watching the cool guy’s driving up Cooper Street with the latest Led Zeppelin 8-track blaring while I sit on a 10 speed bike drinking my Fanta Cream Soda and day dreaming. It was August of 1973 and I had just successfully passed my drivers test and as I was driving home my dad explained to me how much responsibility I now held in my hands, don’t play the radio too loud and remember watch everything around you. I dropped my Dad off at the house and away I went to pick up the girlfriend and head to the A&W drive in for a burger and a root beer and to meet my friends who were already there waiting for me. As I pulled in to the parking lot everything was going good, no embarrassing problems with the Strato Chief and then I got cocky. A quick acceleration into the parking slot and over went two garbage cans, and I received a standing ovation from the gathering of my friends. No wonder my Dad used to call me Skidmark, and it wasn’t because of my underwear!

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