Cruising

It is everything a road should be, eight lanes of flowing vehicles running north and south for 27 miles, each side usually separated by a boulevard that is lush grass, seasonal flowers, or faux antique light posts with hanging baskets of purple flowers.  It is the major connector between Detroit and its northern suburbs, offering morning commuters the easiest ride downtown, provided they start their journey at the right time and drive a consistent 43, where, the legend goes, you will never hit a red light. 

Nights on Woodward Avenue have a different story, and a wonderful history.  Before Americans saw cars as merely the principal source of greenhouse gases, and before their designs were all gray-blue variations of humped Play-Doh, cars were worshipped by young men eager to tame something powerful, and by young women eager to feel the wind in their hair.  Friday and Saturday nights found them thrown together in two-toned cars with fins in the back and bright bumpers joined to the front with two menacing vertical braces, the fierce mouth of a grumpy god that needed to be appeased by speed. 

Newly-minted drivers did their best to feed the beast, grinding their way through the gears in order to be the first off the light, achieving the speed that affirmed their manhood, and delighting their dates.  It was christened Cruising, an effort to bring sailing to land in eight-cylinder wheeled boats with trunks that provided passage for six stowaways into the drive-in movie, hoods with decks so long they had their own area code, and interior space that was larger than most starter apartments. Today’s minivans boast of the ability to hold eight as if it were a new and noble achievement.  The average Chevy or Chrysler of the early 60s could seat eight with just two rows of seats, leaving space in the ample leg room for up to four more to sit if need be.

The Mecca of the cruisers was Ted’s, one of many drive-in restaurants on Woodward, but the one with the largest parking lot, and the one that was farther north than the rest.  The famous Ted’s footlong hot dog was the spoils for completing the journey north, reveling with fellow cruisers in musical battles of AM radios, and brazenly smoking menthol cigarettes they thought made them cool.  The return trip south was sometimes highlighted by drag races only as long as the stoplights would allow, but the main order of the day on the way home was necking, smoking, or dropping drawers to moon other cars.

Fond memories of these astonishing days led a handful of car buffs to start the Woodward Dream Cruise in 1995.  The idea was simple; promote the third weekend in August for owners of the classic cars of the 50s and 60s to ride Woodward again.  Their goal was to get 25,000 cars to participate the first year.  250,000 showed up, and participation has been close to a million in most years since.

It’s hard for some to find solace in the Dream Cruise, especially the Woodward residents who have to live with the cruisers who practice for the big day as early as May.  But for those of us born and raised in the city that gave wheels to the world, there is something romantic and restorative about the drivers who test the mettle of their metal the third week in August, a reminder that cars were once sculpted, not manufactured, helping us see the artful side of the manmade world in a wonderful, unexpected way.

Anemone

I was ready surprisingly early
For anniversary dinner fifteen
So I took a moment on the garden bench
To ponder
Appreciate
And stifle a little in my suit.
It raised its simple head
An unadorned stem
With a purity unusual to August’s humidity.
It was clean
Crisp
And whole
As if weather simply wasn’t.

I think of its arrival
Every anniversary now
Remembering that not everything complies
With environmental demands to sweat.
Nor need I.

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