Drive Me Mad

What's your car relationship? Mine is complicated.

Wreck Without Blame

There’s a term my friends coined years ago—Ric-cident. It’s a noun, defined loosely as: an unintentional or unexpected happening that is undesirable or unfortunate, especially one resulting in injury, damage, harm, or loss, wherein one may or may not be responsible, at fault, or causative. An accident or incident in which Ric has been involved.

It started as a joke. After the first few cars bit the dust, folks started keeping count. After a dozen? T-shirts were printed. I’ve had Ric-cidents in Fords and Chevys, Hondas and Dodges. Some were wild, others mundane. Some were clearly my fault. Others—like the most recent—were just the universe dropping an anvil from the sky.

The Parked Wreck

A few weeks ago, I parked my 2000 Honda at the curb. Nothing unusual. No fast moves. No drinking. Just keys out, car off, brake on—so I thought. At some point later, it rolled. Gained just enough momentum to crunch itself into big truck, right there in the street. The damage was brutal—hood crumpled, lights blown, dignity gone.

No one around, owner not found, note left, cops called. Nothing. Like it didn’t happen at all. Except for the wrecked car in my driveway.

The letter from the insurance company came a week later. Short and simple. No apology, no sympathy. Just a verdict: “We have determined you are zero percent liable.”

I laughed out loud. Not in disbelief—just recognition. Even when I’m not driving, my cars find a way to die. And somehow, for once, it wasn’t my fault.

Tallying the Dead

Depending on how you count it, I’ve gone through 20, maybe 30 vehicles. Not leased or borrowed. Owned. Driven. Wrecked. Some were mechanical suicides. Others met their ends in more theatrical ways. My first car was a ‘76 Pinto—gutless and cheap. I ran it into the ground, but an old Navajo man bought it to drive it on his sheep ranch. How Noble.

Then a ‘70 Datsun 240Z, (by owning I mean crashing my Uncle’s car), an awesome chick-magnet I had no right to wreck. But I did. I took a turn too hard and smashed it into a telephone pole. Shotgun Rider Jim L came out shaken but not injured. My face-plant into the steering wheel cost 11 stitches. Lesson learned.

Humble Pie is best served hot, so after the Z came a ‘72 Ford LTD, and humility came hard with that ride. Leaked oil so bad I placed a collection pan under when I parked. Got pulled over in Arcadia once just because and it just so happened my friend riding shotgun actually had a gun! A 357 lookalike in the glove box that had the cops actual guns in our ears. That was fun.

The list goes on. A ‘72 Ford Courier that I tried to tow a U-Haul up a hill in Utah—overloaded, overmatched, and finally towed itself up the grade by a rescue truck. A ‘76 Chevy 4x4 I blew out the transfer case on an off-road dare. A ‘79 Dodge Van Camper Conversion I helped Grandpa Smitty deck out. I called it the Shag-Mobile. Can’t remember it’s fate, but the next victim was a ‘78 Honda Accord. I cannot remember how it met its fate, poor thing.

Mind you, these are not in chronological order. Hell, these are flashbacks I’m attempting to chronicle for my own sanity. There was an ‘80 Civic a chef gave me with a salvage title - no heater but hell, it’s So Cal. Sold it to a friend that wrecked it. Missed me by that much.

The Mom’s ‘82 Grand Prix I layed down a passenger-side scratch on my first solo drive and that got rear-ended in South Central with me driving. A ‘90 Thunderbird that that blew an O-Ring and melted the engine. A ‘91 Bronco that got recalled.

There was a ‘72 Maverick that tried to kill me. I was on the 210 freeway in Pasadena doing 75 when the seat welds gave out. I dropped flat on my back while the car kept flying forward. I managed to steer it to the shoulder while staring at the roof. Still don’t know how I made it. I drove it a week on a 5-gallon bucket. It was a three-on-the-tree.

And then, there’s the Mustang. The Red Barchetta.

Red Hot Trouble

The ‘88 Ford Mustang GT. Vanity plate: RHT WNGR. She was red, mean, and fast. My favorite. Also my most infamous. One day, the catalytic converter flamed up while I was driving. Smoke poured in. I bailed and got it to a dealership for repairs. While it sat there, waiting for parts, some thieves broke in. Hotwired it. Used it as a battering ram to crash through the shop’s roll-up doors.

Cops found it blocks away, nose-first in someone’s living room.

But that wasn’t even her wildest day.

Back when I was young and dumb, I led twenty-one police cars on a high-speed chase in that Mustang. No excuse, no big agenda—just panic and poor decisions. She held her line through every curve and bump, outran cruisers for miles. Eventually, they boxed me in. I paid the price. So did she.

Later, I wrecked a 2003 Dodge Ram 1500 while driving drunk. That one’s not funny. I owned that mistake. Could’ve killed someone. The truck was totaled. I was lucky not to be. Prison taught me much.

Why They Die

There’s a pattern here, but it’s not as simple as “bad driver.” I’ve had my reckless moments, sure. But I’ve also had vehicles that just seemed to invite catastrophe. Or maybe I picked them because I knew they wouldn’t mind. I’ve lived fast at times. Moved around a lot. Chased dreams and dodged disasters. My cars were always up for it—until they weren’t.

Some gave out quietly, like the pair of Geo Metros that coughed their last in a dealership. The Mitsubishi Expo that died quietly on the side of the road at 298,000 miles. The ‘03 Sienna that survived over a decade of family life, camping trips, and softball weekends. After we traded it in, we got a notice that it was impounded by the Customs and Border Patrol. What a badass mom-van, right?

Others went down in style, like the Mustang. But every one of them tells a story. And most of them ended in twisted metal, scorched paint, or a tow.

When the Machines Choose

Lately, I’ve been turning over a strange thought. What if cars had the choice? Not just "Can Ric afford it?" but "Do I want Ric?"

Imagine AI-packed rides, each with a brain forged from the data of a thousand lives. They know what roads you’ve driven, what corners you’ve cut, what repairs you’ve skipped. When you walk into a dealership, you don’t pick the car. The car picks you—or it doesn’t.

I walk in, paperwork in hand, hope in my chest. The cars sync up. They scan my record.

Catalytic inferno. RHT WNGR. DUI in a Ram. Pole-smash in a 240Z. Parked Honda rolls itself into oblivion.

A sleek electric coupe locks its doors. “No thanks.” A used hybrid flashes red. “Insufficient trust score.”

But in the corner sits an old, bruised ‘76 Chevy short-bed. One headlight out. Frame a little warped. It growls, "I’ve been through hell. Let’s ride." Sounds like Carter Slade and I’m all in.

The Deal

These cars wouldn’t just reject you—they’d take control when needed. If you make it behind the wheel, you're not alone. The AI is there, riding shotgun in every sense.

You punch it on the highway? It lets you—for a second—until road conditions, traffic, and your recent driving behavior trigger a quiet override. The car reins you in, smooth and automatic. Lane assist isn’t optional—it’s a nervous system. Fatigue detected? It shifts into semi-autonomous mode. Too many sharp turns, too close together? The throttle response dulls down. One whiff of alcohol from the cabin sensors, and it doesn’t shut down—it takes over, drives you home like a pissed-off parent.

No punishment. No condescension. Just protection. It’s not about whether you’re trusted—it’s about whether you’re alive.

Maybe I’d smirk. “Alright, I get it. You’re the boss when I blow it.”

Because deep down, I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either. Not all the time.

The Override Button

Of course, part of me chafes at this. I’m human. I want override power. I want to say, "Yeah, I torched a few rides, but I’ve grown. I’ve changed."

But that’s what the Mustang would say too, if it came back from the dead. “Sure, I was used in a felony, but I’m better now.” Would I trust it? Would you?

Maybe the answer isn’t override. Maybe it’s consent. Mutual understanding between man and machine. A recognition that some souls are dented—but still drivable.

The Dream Machine

I grew up loving the Lone Ranger and Knight Rider. The masked man with his horse Silver. The slick dude with KITT, a talking Trans Am that never let him down. I used to want that—a vehicle that knew me. Not just my route, but my reasons.

If my dream car showed up tomorrow, it wouldn’t be fresh off the lot. It’d be rebuilt. Scars in the paint. Soul in the system. Maybe it’s the Mustang, reborn. RHT WNGR 2.0.

It sees the chase, the fire, the flames. And still says, “Hop in, Ric. Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”

Or maybe it’s the Courier, AI-infused, voice rasping like gravel. “You dragged me up a mountain chasing fatherhood. That was dumb. That was noble. I’ll tow your dreams again.”

Whatever it is, it’d be more than metal. It’d be partnership. Not because it trusts me—but because it’s willing to.

You and Your Ride

This post isn’t just about my wrecks. It’s about what happens when our machines start judging us back. When the things we depend on start depending on us to be better.

Some of us have Ric-cidents. Others have quieter collapses. But we all carry something that rattles under the hood.

If the next car you buy looked you in the eye and asked, “Can I trust you?”—what would you say?

Me? I’d say, “Probably not. But I’ll try.”

And maybe that’s enough to turn the ignition.

And with that my friends, may we always ride together into the sunset.

Ric