 |
| Talking Story with Arlo |
My Brakeman, the Hot Rodder
By Arlo Agogo - a human storytellerMan, dig this scene: the sun’s beating down like a righteous drum solo, sand kicking up in golden rooster tails behind my dune buggy.
My 1968 VW dune buggy is a hot rod.
That little beast was roaring with way more fury than I’d expected—heart slamming in my chest, pure adrenaline joy as I crested every hill like a kid who’d just discovered rocket fuel.
Whoosh! Over the top, weightless for a split second, then bam—tires bite again and we’re flying. Pure groove. But right there, mid-air on some wild dune, it hit me:
Even the craziest bobsled run needs its braker.
The one who laughs through the big bumps, points out the next thrilling jump, and gently taps the brakes when the speed gets a little too electric. So you can both savor the view, the moment, and the fact that you’re still alive to tell the tale.
That brakeman turned out to be my father.
Cool cat supreme. A genuine hot rodder from the days when “responsible” was a square word and the open road was a jazz riff waiting to be played loud and fast.
Dad told stories that could make your hair stand up. Back when he was a teenager, speed wasn’t a suggestion—it was religion. One hundred miles an hour was his sweet spot.
He chased it so hard the tickets piled up like unpaid bar tabs, eventually steering him straight into the Army. “Couldn’t find enough speed on the streets,” he’d say with that sly grin, “so Uncle Sam gave me a tank.”
We’d gather around, my brothers and me, hanging on every word like it was the Sermon on the Mount delivered by James Dean himself.
As Dad got older, the four of us sons made it our holy mission to deliver him back to that sweet spot. One brother in his Muscle Car Mustang, another in his 911 Porsche, the third in a BMW, and me—your faithful narrator—in my ’57 Porsche Speedster. That little red bullet was pure poetry on wheels.
I’d roll up to visit Pops in his later years, and before I could even say hello, he’d light up: “Let’s go find a hundred!”
“You paying for the ticket?” He would fire back...... “Yep.”
Deal sealed. I’d wheel his chair over to the Speedster, fold him in like precious cargo, and off we’d zoom to that secret back road—Sand Dune Boulevard, we called it in our minds.
Wind whipping, engine singing that old hot rod aria.
Something about hitting triple digits on a city street, knowing you’re breaking every law in the book, but you’ve got your dad shotgun?
Invincible. Cosmic. The ultimate father-son beat.
One particular afternoon, we were deep in the groove. I had her flying—definitely a hundred plus.
Then those berries and cherries lit up behind us.
Red and blue flashing like a bad trip. I pulled over, already imagining the car towed, me in the cooler, and Dad telling war stories to the lady cops waiting for my bail number.
The cop strolled up, all official, and approached the passenger side first. Dad, early 80s and still sharp as a switchblade, secretly attached his seat belt and laid it on thick.
“Make the ticket out to me, officer. I told him to get me to a hundred. It’s the joy of my life when one of my boys does that.”
The cop—probably early 30s, family man written all over him—put his ticket book away. But instead of cuffing me, he started teaching.
He told Dad straight: just because you’re old doesn’t mean you get to be reckless. “A hundred miles an hour? If somebody pulls out in front of you, you’re both dead.” He went on about his own kids, four boys, how dangerous it was, how Dad needed to be the voice of reason, not the instigator.
A full-on sermon on responsibility.
I sat there stunned. My wild hot-rodder father getting schooled by a young cop? Dad’s eyes changed right there. The reckless soul who once burned rubber like it was going out of style started softening.
He wasn’t just the speed demon anymore—he was a father watching his son try to please him, and it flipped the script. By the end of the lecture, Dad looked at me and nodded.
Seventy-five. The new gospel according to "The Man" .
Growing up, it was never hard to get Dad to open it up with us four boys in the car. He’d light up those tires, head down the road like the devil himself was chasing him.
But he always had his own braker: Mom.
She loved hot rodding as much as he did back when they were dating—big motor, big tires, the whole scene.
Yet she knew the limits. “Seventy-five!” she’d call out. Back then there were no seatbelts. Me sprawled in the back window ledge just freaking out with delight.
Mom kept the chaos fun instead of fatal. She was the original braker, the cool hand on the wild wheel.
Now the torch had passed. The cop became Dad’s brakeman that day.
And slowly, beautifully, Dad became mine.
These days, when I fire up the dune buggy and feel that old urge to push it past the sane, I hear his voice. “Keep it safe, son.”
He always rib me about my old Volkswagen bus—the one he made fun of mercilessly. “That thing leaks oil on my driveway like it’s crying for mercy!” he’d say, then laugh that big booming laugh.
He’d poke me in the chest, pull me by my ear, and remind me with that classic dad glare: “Don’t forget who’s the father here, kid.” Clean up that drip and park in the street. Now!
But it’s all love, man. All groove. Having a hot rod dad was the greatest gift. He taught us the thrill of the ride, the poetry of speed, and later—the wisdom of knowing when to ease off.
Spin the tires in the dirt lots, do some donuts where nobody gets hurt, but respect the road when it counts.
I think of him every time the needle starts climbing. Every time the dunes call my name and the buggy begs for more.
He’s my brakeman now.
The one who laughs with me through the bumps, points out the jumps, and keeps us both safe so the joy never ends.
Because the real trip isn’t just hitting a hundred—it’s sharing the road with someone who knows exactly when to say,
“Easy, cool cat. Let’s savor this one.”
Life’s too short for endless tickets, but just long enough for perfect rides with your people.
Thanks, Dad.
You taught me how to fly... and how to land softly.
RideOn, TalkingStorywithArlo.com
sponsored by.....
Start your Search Here
Click any Category