I gunned my car right past them, and, of course, the chase was on. Down Prospect and then up and around the residential streets we sped
by Denise Kano
It started with my mom’s 1972 green Chevy Impala station wagon and Hermosa Avenue. Once I got my driver’s license in 1976, I would grab my mom’s car keys and take the forest green, bubble-back station wagon westward, leaving east Manhattan Beach in my dust. I’d head down to Hermosa Avenue and point this massive vehicle southbound toward Pier Avenue. This was where all the action was and everyone knew it. I’d slowly drive along Pier toward the end and negotiate the tight U-turn (not easy for a new driver in a gigantic station wagon), sometimes pausing to pick up a taco burrito at Diana’s.
Next, I’d take the sharp right turn back onto Hermosa Avenue and head further south, always toward the Esplanade and usually with increasing speed. While Hermosa was popular to cruise and flirt with other drivers, the Esplanade was most tempting because it had no stop signs in the ‘70s. Anyone who was interested in a driving a car on the faster side could “floor it” on the Esplanade and make some noise at the same time. Here we could race down the seemingly endless Esplanade with Palos Verdes in the distance — our young lives spread out in front of us with no end in sight.
“Come on downstairs to the garage,” said my dad. It was my 17th birthday, and my friends were over to celebrate. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the garage was open and there, parked inside, was my parents’ 1973 Mercury Cougar –newly-painted, bright yellow. With the black hardtop and canary yellow color, I must have resembled a blurry bumblebee as I roared around the South Bay streets. An 8-track of Peter Frampton, E.L.O., or Bad Company blaring from my car speakers made me feel unstoppable.
At Mira Costa, there were other car enthusiasts, of course, among them a group of hot-looking boys who ate lunch together, played football together, and talked about (and worked on) cars together. I sat near them during lunch so I could overhear their stories and watch them crack each other up. I wanted to be part of their group, or at least, get them to like me. Although I was on the drill team, I couldn’t count myself among the most popular girls in high school. I was on the periphery, as was this particular group of boys.
All of these guys drove great cars – the white Mustang, the light blue Corvair, the black El Camino, the fire-engine red Falcon station wagon, among others. I loved those cars, and I knew my Cougar could compete, if not win, against any of them, given the chance to race. I had become a common sight on Saturday nights down on Hermosa Avenue and the Esplanade, but I felt a need to prove it to these boys, to show them I had what it took to be one of the gang.
For my 18th birthday, I asked for, and received “mag” wheels, only because one of the boys from the group had suggested that I ask for them, and I wanted him to think my car was cool. He also thought spray painting the wheels yellow to match my car would look “really bitchin’.” (If he had suggested painting them in pink polka dots, I probably would have considered that, too.) While I doubt many other 18-year-old girls wanted mag wheels for their birthdays or spent their weekends at Pep Boys buying car cleaning accessories, it didn’t matter to me – my goal was to have the coolest, fastest car on the street.
Down Hermosa Avenue and south to the Esplanade I raced my Cougar, first making eye contact with some unsuspecting out-of-towner driving something a little less flashy, like a dirt-brown, rusty four-cylinder. On nights when my best friend Diane came with me, this brought a little more cachet because Diane was pretty and very popular, and I had the hot car — a potent combination for hormone-filled South Bay boys. Sometimes we’d stop and actually talk to someone, but most of the time we would make harmless eye contact with other drivers and passengers, and then floor it, playing “catch me” driving games.
One night in residential Hermosa, Diane and I came across the boys from school all piled into the Falcon station wagon with Mark at the wheel. I gunned my car right past them, and, of course, the chase was on. Down Prospect and then up and around the residential streets we sped, oblivious to safety issues as only youth can be. Until we approached two hairpin turns. I easily maneuvered my Cougar through the first turn, and then quickly through the second turn, with Diane screaming in the passenger seat and me high from adrenaline. Mark got through the first turn, but overshot the more abrupt second turn. The station wagon jumped the right curb, narrowly missing a telephone poll. Fortunately, nobody was hurt that night, except for a few bruised egos. Mark was grounded for a while, but my reputation was made.
A few months after this bit of racing history, I traded in the super fast Cougar for a sporty, olive-green MG Midget convertible, complete with luggage rack. I soon pointed this new car in the direction of college, an hour’s drive away. But on the morning that I left for college, I put on my sunglasses, revved up the Midget, and cruised the Esplanade one last time before heading for the 405 freeway.
These days when I drive down the Esplanade, I pause at the many necessary stop signs. For a moment, my foot itches to press that pedal, ready to floor it, remembering when there were no obstacles holding us back and we raced down this long stretch of street, eager to reach our future.
