I bought my first car when I was in the Navy; a 1976 Ford Econoline 150 van. It was one of those customized/conversion vans that were popular in the 1970s. It had four captain’s chairs, a small table with drink holders in front of the back chairs, a bed in the back, and it was carpeted throughout with a multi-hued blue shag rug. The bed framework was created out of 2x4s and plywood. The walls were particle board with the rug glued onto it. Plywood was laid on the floor with the rug glued over that. The van was hauling a lot of weight.

But it was fast as hell.

Under the hood was a 351 Windsor engine with a C6 transmission. I once took in to get serviced and the mechanic who took it out for a test ride came back smiling while turning the steering wheel with one finger and remarked that it drives like a Cadillac, and just wants to go fast.

When I was stationed in Patuxent River, Maryland I would drive home to New Jersey every other weekend or so to visit family and friends. One weekend while driving home along a stretch of highway in Maryland I stopped at a red light. A souped-up Chevy Nova SS pulls up next to me and the driver starts revving it’s engine and inching forward like they were staging the lights at a dragstrip. I looked over at the car and the driver made eye contact with me taunting me with his forehead to race him.

Come on, you're driving a modified Chevy Nova SS. That’s a muscle car. Light and fast and built for speed. And… you want to race me in a conversion van? Was I supposed to be the bottom rung of your confidence-building ladder so that perhaps one day you might get the balls to take on a Volkswagen Beetle?

The light turned green, and the guy took off reaching speed limit faster than I cared to at the time, especially knowing that there were speed traps along this stretch of highway having driven it many times in the past. Sometime later I caught up to the Nova while driving up a hill. I looked over at the driver, smiled, and then stepped on the gas passing him and watching his car get smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror until I crested the top of the hill where I resumed to my regular cruising speed – about five miles per hour over the speed limit.

This turned into a pattern that repeated itself.
Stop at a light – Nova pulls next to me taunting me to race.
He takes off fast. I let him go.
I catch up to him going up a hill and blast past him.
Repeat two more times.
That Nova had no balls.

Years later, and with many more mile on the odometer I was coming home from my girlfriend’s house in South Brunswick, NJ. I turned onto Cranbury road and there was this big car in front of me that was driving 25mph in a 45mph zone. I went to pass them and to my surprise they sped up not allowing me to pass. I dropped back due to oncoming traffic at which point they slowed back down to turtle pace. This happened twice.

Now I’m pissed. I quickly realize that I’m in a van.
They’re in a car.
My headlights sit higher and will shine right into their back window to their rear-view mirror reflecting back to the driver blinding them.

I turn on my high beams and tailgate the bastards – which looking into the car with my bright high beams on looked like a forty-something mom at the wheel, another adult in the passenger seat, and some older kids in the back.

Still nothing. So I lay on my horn. This stretch of road was mostly an industrial complex. So other than passing cars you didn’t see any people. To that driver I must have seemed like a crazed lunatic out of a horror movie, or at least I thought so.

They finally pulled over and let me pass.

Once I passed them, they sped up, put THEIR high beams on, and started laying on THEIR horn while tailgating me.

Touché!

I still didn’t understand why they had to be a dick about it. I just wanted to pass them, and they wouldn’t let me, and they wouldn’t drive the speed limit when I was behind them.

But they didn’t know who they were dealing with. I had been driving this van for years now. It was my baby. I knew what it could and couldn’t do. It was dark outside and time to make them shit their pants.

The van was an automatic, no clutch. The back of my van had old school heavy metal bumpers that gleamed of shiny chrome. I felt fearless.

I positioned my left foot above the brake pedal. I became highly aware of my right foot on the gas pedal. In a delicate choreography that would rival a classic ballet production, my right foot briefly let off the gas. My left foot tapped the brake, which caused the brake lights on the van to turn on, which signaled to the tailgating car behind me that I was slowing down and hopefully striking fear into their racing hearts. In my rear-view mirror I could see the windshield of their car quickly move closer to my van at which point I punched the gas pedal and sped forward before we could make contact. I never saw a car drop back so far, so quickly. With their horn silenced, they turned off their high beams and resumed their snail’s pace knowing better than to mess with a silver van that just wants to pass them.