Memories, fuzzy, funny memories.

Spotted yesterday, a 1971 Chevrolet Impala.

At the time of its release it was the largest car sold in America. It was also one of the best selling. The 1965 model, sold over a million units. A record, I believe, still stands today, despite the unexplainable ubiquitous appeal of the Toyota Prius.

The Impala featured a monstrously large 350 cubic inch big block V-8 engine. And because of its lack of seatbelts as well as its wide, wide benches, it could comfortably seat 6 adults. But you can't convince me some overly productive Irish Catholic or Hasidic mother didn't stuff it with 8 or 9 kids.

I mention all this because the 71 Chevy Impala was the first tank...er, car, I ever drove. It was the vehicle of choice for the Suffern High School Driver's Ed Program.

The one we drove was cream colored. And it sat low to the ground, probably due to its massive weight, unlike the model pictured above which is jacked up and sports low profile tires and 1000 dollar black titanium matte finished rims.

Had I not been stoned most of my teenage years, I could probably reproduce some vivid memories of those hot, humid, and sticky summer driving lessons.

Here's what I do remember.

The Driver's Ed teacher was Coach Brentnall. I was never fond of the hard ass Coaches at my high school. Mostly because I got the feeling they were sleep walking through their jobs. I was never good at the team sports, but had certain aptitude for solo sports like swimming, weight lifting and even wrestling. Would have been nice if one of those guys had offered me some encouragement in those areas. I'm sure many of these apathetic boneheads would have been shocked to learn I would go on to run marathons and complete several triathlons.

But Coach Brentnall was the exception. I liked him.

He was a big bear of a man. And had quite the hearty laugh. Moreover, he was an easy laugh and he seemed to enjoy his work. I would think that would be a prerequisite for any man or woman, stepping into 71 Impala with 5 numbskull teenagers, who could barely distinguish the accelerator pedal from the other pedal.

"That pedal stops the car."

For the life of me, I can't remember the names of the other kids in the car. I know there was one girl (I think her name was Nancy, though almost every girl in my high school was named Nancy) and three other guys besides myself.

The one guy I do remember was Jimmy B*%$#@w. I won't write his name out of respect. Suffice to say, that while small and wiry in stature, Jimmy B. had a huge smart ass mouth. Like me. He could be quite mischievous. He made the Coach and I roll over in laughter.

Particularly when Nancy was driving.

On one occasion, she literally plowed the big Chevy into a row of hedges. The unscratched car came to halt. Panic ensued. And Jimmy took the opportunity to lean over from the backseat and whispered to Nancy, "Punch it."

Which she did, kicking up mounds of dirt and digging a ditch for the big Impala, thus requiring assistance from a tow truck.

The incident makes my Top Ten Hardest Laughs I've ever experienced in my life.

Now you understand why I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the 1971 Chevrolet Impala.