MONSTER TRUCK RALLY

“MONSTER TRUCK RALLY!”   The words reverberate through the stadium.  You’ve seen the commercials - monster trucks mounting handily a line of small cars; their giant wheels pummeling average sedans.  I’m living in the midst of a Monster Truck Rally and regretfully I’m in one of the little cars that gets smashed at the bottom of the pile.  Vroom, vroom.

I have been driving since I was 14 years old.  Growing up in rural Iowa, a driver’s license was freedom, independence, and the only means of getting good pizza.  I was at the county courthouse on my 14^th birthday to get my driver’s permit and on my 16^th birthday to get my license.

Driving is second nature to me.  (Although I will admit that manual transmissions are the great exception to that statement.)

I’m accustom to big vehicles too.  Iowa farmers must have their pickup trucks and suburban St. Louis moms must have their SUVs.  But I’m having a hard time getting accustom to Texas’ enormous trucks.

The phrase, “everything’s bigger in Texas,” is especially true of the trucks.  They are not just big, they’re monsters and the Texas highways are full of them - dual wheels, extended cabs, giant beds. 

The cabs of these trucks must sit five feet in the air.  Our Toyota could easily slip beneath the chassis.  How does the driver get behind the wheel?  Is the extended bed meant to hold the ladder required to get into the vehicle? 

At a stoplight, I look to my side and stare directly into glistening chrome wheel wells.  King of the Cab looks down at me from his lofty perch.  He smirks and points at the mere mortal.  With a wave of his hand and a foot on the gas, I’d be smashed like a bug.  He knows it and smiles benevolently.  I pause a bit as the light turns green to let HRH go first.  It seems prudent and customary.  He is King of the Road and I am just a serf who would like to arrive home in one piece.

Recently, my husband Tim looked at an MG that was for sale by owner.

We owned an MG early in our married life, but quickly realized its impracticality.  It wasn’t great in hot summers or cold winters, which left little of the St. Louis year remaining.  Two people could barely fit in it comfortably and forget about luggage or babies.  We owned that car for nine months.  Tim remembers the car fondly and eyed excitedly the red MG sitting in the corner of a parking lot with a “For Sale” sign on its dashboard.

Tim and I in the MG (Sept. 1990)

MGs are cute, but small and low to the ground.  What was Tim thinking?!  The monster trucks would scoop it up and eat it for lunch!  The monster trucks would roll over it and not even notice!  We’d be left at the side of the road with the rest of the roadkill.

I sighed with relief when Tim discovered the car’s price was more than he wanted to spend.  I’ll leave the side of the road to the skunks and armadillos.