The Dirt Field

For as long as I can remember, my father has driven a BMW. Even as a little girl, I knew The Rules of riding in his car: (1) no feet on the seats, (2) no food/drink, (3) no slamming the door, (4) only use the door handle when closing the door from the outside, and (5) don’t touch any buttons except the seat heater control. I credit my mother’s presence for being the only reason I wasn’t left on the side of the highway when I was around eight years old and threw up in the backseat on the way home from Thanksgiving dinner. It’s understood that nobody drives his car except him; my mother and I joke that if he were periously wounded, he’d rather walk to the hospital than let one of us drive his car there. We laugh because it’s true.

Or so I thought. A few years ago, my father let me drive his BMW home after a Father’s Day dinner at Morton’s. It was a short trip and I spent the entire time stupefied by the enormity of the experience. We made it home safely, but I figured it was a one-time thing.

Before I bought my BMW just over a year ago, I had him come to the dealership to check out the car. He found a gorgeous M5 while browsing the lot and a week later he bought it. Since then, I’ve regularly made comments like, “Don’t eat that much butter – I don’t want you dropping dead of a heart attack. Wait, on second thought, that would mean I’d get your car. Can I deep fry that for you?” I assumed the only way I’d get behind the wheel of that car would be over his dead body.

Imagine my surprise when a simple joke about swapping cars for a day resulted in me driving home from Sunday dinner in the M5. Me. Driving his car. Without supervision.

From the moment I pulled out of the neighborhood, I wanted to turn around and return the car. While it was amazing to drive, it was also terrifying to know I was in possession of my father’s baby and responsible for keeping it safe and pristine. Parking it in my assigned spot at home for the night was only somewhat nerve-wracking since I know the neighbors that park on either side, but parking it at work the next morning was another matter. I parked so far back in that lot that I could have saved time by walking from home.The only reason I wasn’t parked farther back was because that spot was only one guaranteed to be unoccupied on one side. If it wouldn’t have attracted unwanted attention, I’d have brought cones to put around the car.

Learning the controls and using iDrive was another challenge; by the time I managed to put on HOT 99.5 (because I enjoy hearing the same crappy song times six times an hour), I’d hit enough buttons to launch a space shuttle. The only button I had no problem locating was the one that activates the performance mode for the car: when I started to drive it Dad said, “Don’t hit the M button on the wheel or you’ll switch the car to 500+ horsepower.” So of course I found and hit it immediately. Duh.Driving around in such a sweet car made me feel incredibly cool, even if the most exciting plan I could devise was take it for a spin in the middle of my workday.

After trying ineffectively to play amongst endless lights and slow-moving midday traffic, I ended up sitting at a Starbucks drinking coffee and staring at the car through the window, partially out of admiration and partially because I was scared that somebody might park in the same hemisphere.When I called my parents’ house that evening to make sure it was a good time to come back to switch cars, my mother thought I sounded tired and urged me to stay home and worry about returning the car another day. I was adamant about coming right then; every moment I had possession of the car was another moment in which some terrible fate might befall it. Not to mention that at an average of 12.8 MPG on the required premium gasoline, every mile was costing me dearly.After putting in $35 of gas (which bought me just over half a tank, equalling about a hundred miles of driving), I pulled in my parents’ driveway and breathed a sign of relief; while driving the car was a pleasure and a privilege, keeping it safe was too much pressure. The driving experience was also different than I’d anticipated. In my car, driving is a visceral experience, with leaping acceleration, airtight cornering, and stiff suspension. I expected the M5 to be a bigger, badder interpretation of that, but instead found it to be a very powerful, refined luxury sedan not suited for reenacting a scene from The Fast and the Furious.

But I’m still really glad I got a chance to try it out. Not only is it a very nice car, but it was an unforgettable moment with my father. While he was explaining details about the car as he handed over the key, the unspoken words were clear: “I trust you and I want to share this with you.” The car may be back with its rightful owner, but that’s something that will stick with me forever.