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In New York City, only masochists drive cars. Children internalize that fact early on growing up in the Big Apple, and nothing changes that knowledge as they mature. Exceptions were limited: kids whose family had a beach house either on the Jersey shore or out in the Hamptons were eager to sign up for Driver's Ed so they could cruise those small town streets on summer nights along with the locals. Jersey boys, they all drove. Seemed a right of passage on that side of the water. We'd hit some frat house or other in our trolling for college boys on a Saturday night and end up drag racing on Route 22 in Mountainside, enjoying the reckless speed and daredevil antics so alien to the New York boys we normally dated.

My father pointed out that I should take driver's ed when it was offered at my high school. Growing up on a farm in Michigan, he'd been driving since he was 12. It seemed a good idea, but I couldn't enroll - although I was a senior, I was too young according to state law. I'd skipped a grade or two here and there and was only 15 that last semester. I wasn't particularly aggrieved by that pronouncement, as I didn't see any real reason to drive. I was going to graduate in January and start attending college up in the Bronx, riding there by subway each day.

Of course, at CUNY there were driver's ed courses available, but I was determined to keep my youth a secret on campus and avoided any circumstance where I might have to own up to being only 16. Felt the same the following year, and the one after that. Eventually, I didn't even look at the class offerings and was none the worse for it.

I married a Brooklynite who had learned to drive thanks to an older brother who'd gotten into drag racing. "SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY at NATIONAL SPEEDWAY!" the radio commercials would boom out. His brother, a slick-haired greaser motorhead, would race his 1969 emerald green Camaro from dawn 'til dusk and bring home trophies for his efforts. We began our marriage in a tiny apartment on Ocean Parkway, where alternate side of the street parking regulations meant my young spouse spent more time moving his car to new parking spots than driving it. I went to work by subway and he went by bicycle. But it was worth the parking tribulations, because on weekends we'd jump in that car and drive up to Mystic, Connecticut...or the Pennsylvania Dutch country...or the Catskills. Still, I had no need to drive.

Years passed. We moved to a co-op in Queens and finally to a house on Staten Island.

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