Screwball Tragedy

Category: The Road Worrier

  • Unhinged at Any Speed

    photo of Ford Nucleon prototype

    Scientific American: “In 1959 Ford Motor Company built a model chassis for the Nucleon, which would be powered by steam from a microreactor. Needless to say it was never completed, but the model can be seen at the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan.”

    Wikipedia: “Ford envisioned… that the vehicle would get 5,000 miles before the reactor would have to be exchanged for a new one.”

    The average American now drives about 14,000 miles a year. So, roughly three times a year the fissioning, uranium-filled power source would need to be replaced.

    Certainly nothing inconvenient about that. Would the Jiffy Reactor Swap have free popcorn served in lead bags?

    It’s a shame Ford didn’t incorporate this bold technology a decade later, when it introduced the Pinto. The fiery glow from a rear-ended atomic car would have eliminated the need for traffic cones and made it easy for a towtruck to locate the wreckage.

  • Shake. Rattle. Roll.

    Shredded tire.

    A few months back, heading northbound toward Seattle on the interstate, with afternoon traffic moving slightly above the speed limit — a rare enough occurrence to be a story in itself — I was keeping right to allow hardcore speeders easy passage when I noticed a series of cars in my lane suddenly braking, moving left, then rocketing forward.

    Drawing closer, I realized a battered Camry was going about 50, despite a flat tire on the driver’s side rear. The highway shoulder was plenty wide enough to pull over and safely change it or call for help, but apparently the occupants were determined to make it to the next exit, about a mile ahead.

    Fascinated by the Camry’s side-to-side shake, I slowed to match its speed, hung back a dozen car lengths, and turned my flashers on. I expected the shredding tire to fly apart, but the car made it to the exit for an area called Star Lake, which has a gas station a few yards off the interchange. But they just kept going.

    When I pulled out and passed, the driver, a teenage boy in a backward ballcap, and now more than two miles from the nearest ramp, was chatting on the phone, laughing. I tried to imagine the conversation:

    “Dude, whassup… Me? Not much. I’m on I-5, heading back to Canada.”