Duchess of Hazzard

In 1984 I was handed the keys to a 1972 Chevy Impala that was virtually indestructible. For a night out on the town, I could fit five or six of my buddies comfortably inside the yellow tank. When attending a drive-in movie, the same friends could fit uncomfortably in the trunk.

My greatest joy was to take the beast onto the open highway and let 'er rip. We would open the windows and let the 120 miles per hour wind rake through the Agua Net wings in our hair while yelling "yea haw" like Bo and Luke from The Dukes of Hazzard.

It was late summer when a couple friends and I decided to travel the gravel roads on our way home from Mitchell. There was one particular spot in the road where we hit a little ramp-like hill with a drop off on the other side. The first time we hit it, the 500-hundred-ton beast left the road for a bit as it sailed through the air. My sixteen-year-old brain thought this was great fun, so I drove around the section to see if I could get a bit more lift.

As we approached the small incline, I stepped on the gas to build up as much speed as possible. We hit that sucker going about sixty (which is impressive on an unstable gravel road)! At the moment we let loose with our best "yea haw", a man on a tractor appeared at the bottom of the hill.

I frantically turned the wheel, which doesn't work so well when the car isn't touching the ground, and the "yea haw" turned to "oh shiiiiiiiittttttttt"! The one second time in the air felt like an eternity as the man turned around on the tractor seat with an expression of horror upon his tanned face. We hit the ground a few feet behind the man, and I was able to slide around the tractor without incident.

The silence was deafening during the next few miles before I carefully pulled to the side of the road to catch my breath. I rested my head on the steering wheel and listened to the shaky breathing of my comrades. Looking at their white faces, I wondered if my parents would be able to smell the fear that currently permeated the vehicle.

We made a pact that day to never speak of the event again. I became a careful driver after that, and I strove to maintain my vow of careful driving for the rest of my high school years. Avoiding gravel roads was the crux of our pact; I earnestly followed this guideline for years.

I must admit that I now remember this story with amusement rather than anxiety. When I travel back to South Dakota and view my old stomping ground, Bo and Luke call to me as I step on the gas, lower my car windows, pull in a breath of country air, and release a "yea haw" that travels back to 1984 and my reckless youth.