UD Student "auto-biography" -- Mohammad Almashama and his Limousine

Mohammad ALmashama
History 344
1/24/2012
Limousine
The car that has left a memorable event in my life is the limousine. I happened to enjoy the comfort of being driven in a limousine on the Christmas holiday of ten years ago. This occurred when we were to go out with my entire family to America over the Christmas holidays. As the last born in a family of ten children, no one seemed to pay much attention on me. Instead, everyone including my parents were all enthusiastic of the trip to America, for it was to be their first trip there. I noticed earlier that no one paid much attention to me. As the last born, however, I was mad because I expected to have attention especially from my mother. All she did, however, was preparing for the trip. In disappointment, I went out to the verandah and sat there all alone.
As I sat there all alone, my other family members prepared and left for their trip, oblivious of my absence. I realized they had left when it was too late. Thus, I walked, aimlessly, feeling both frightened and disappointed. Unaware of my destination, I chose to go. Suddenly, I saw a long white car, pulling right beside me. The driver stopped and shouted merry Christmas. I found myself smiling as I was directed into the posh car.
The length of the limousine itself perplexed me a lot. I wondered why the car was so long. Though I did not know the stranger, I decided to get into the car. Inside the limousine was so exotic, I hardly believed. There were all types of entertainment. I could see a large flat screen television. There was also a laptop beside it. In addition, the seats were so posh; I almost refused to seat on them. Everything in the car was white in color, except the seats, which were made of black leather. There was also a cooler, where I helped myself with some drinks. Moreover, there was a phone, which was used to communicate with the driver. Unlike other cars I had seen before, the driver was not visible once someone was inside the limousine. He kept calling, in case there was any difficulty, and I almost thought I was dreaming.
Another unique experience I had while in the limousine is that one assumes he/she is in a house. In essence, the limousine is made such that one does not hear the sound of anything outside the limousine. I could not see other vehicles outside, for the limousine had tainted windows. This created a feeling of relaxation for one does not worry about external disturbances. Moreover, the seats were also convertible and could easily be made into a bed. I thought I was in a house because even the potholes could not be felt. There was a fan for fresh, cool air, and the floor was carpeted with white carpet.
I was humbled when the driver finally woke me up, asking me to step out. There was my family, who wanted to prove their love through the surprise. Though it was lovely meeting them again, the experience was impressive, and this made me love limousine cars. I vowed to work extra had, in order to purchase one in the future. The experience in the car is memorable, giving the occupants a status of power.

UD Student Tim Hartnett -- "Silver Way" a Pontiac Grand Am

Living in a family of five, with a younger sister and a younger brother, I have learned the art of sharing and providing hand-me-downs. This ranged from toys and out grown clothes to shoes my brother decided he liked. Generally speaking, I did not have a problem sharing my stuff, and I was very fortunate growing up that my parents were able to help me pay for nice, more expensive items, like my first car, a Pontiac Grand Am.
This first car was everything I wanted and needed. I turned 16 the summer before. I anticipated getting my license, the first of all my friends. I scheduled the classroom learning and the in-car instructional. I took the test the week after my birthday and passed! I was young and free! I had a license! I wanted to spread my metaphorical wings and simply sore unrestricted. My birthday gift/partial personal investment was my car, my ticket to freedom. I bought a parking pass for my high school parking lot, and people to car-pool with. I took care of my car, and she took care of me. I waxed the car at least once a summer and once a winter. I scrubbed the tires and wheels. The car glistened in the sun and the snow brushed so easily off the smooth finish.
This car was all mine, no sharing. That is until my sister, Kelly, turned 16 two years later. That same summer, I graduated from high school in early June and she turned 16 in early July. The month before I left for school we had to pick days of the weekend we wanted the car. We had to share the car civilly, or no one was allowed to drive that weekend. We managed to make it work between us, but it felt so unfair because this was MY car for the two last years. I paid for the gas; I took the empty water bottles and wrappers out of the car. I just wanted my baby to be appreciated and not abused; I didn’t think this was too much to ask. We had our brotherly/sisterly yelling matches, but at the end of the summer, I left for the University of Dayton, a place where freshman were not allowed to have cars.
Living without my car was surprisingly easier than I thought, although I did miss being able to drive somewhere whenever I wanted. When I went home the first time for fall break, my parents had to come down and get me. While home, my sister took my car to school. The car I called my own, was now HERS. It hurt to have this reality. All the hard work I put into keeping my silver baby clean was put to the way side as the car showed poorly my sister treated the car. There were scratches on the hood, dings on the side door, and the mirror had gotten knocked off the driver’s side. What happened to my baby, my precious car? As I asked my sister, the stories came about how none of them were her fault. The mailbox moved and garage door width narrowed. All the effort I put into keeping my car in the same shape when we bought it was no longer visible. When I came home that summer, the real problems began. I was working and so was my sister. I would have to wake up at 6:30 (in the summer?!?!) to drive my mother to work so I could drive the minivan and my sister could take the car we share. On the bright side, my mom helped me pay for gas that summer. Sharing my car with my younger sister for an entire summer was hardly just an inconvenience but we got through it.
I went back to school for my sophomore year, living off campus and car-less. It was difficult to get groceries without using my roommate’s car. In order to go home or visit a friend, I had to find a ride that involved me not driving. It was less than enjoyable. That Christmas, my grandparents bought themselves a new car. They found it in their heart to give their old red ’96 Buick LeSabre to me as a gift, and because it no longer served a purpose in their garage. It was a set of wheels that got me from point A to point B. The front seat was a leather bucket seat, and the radio dial could be controlled from the steering wheel. Those were the 2 best features of the car. That summer I got a job in Tennessee working for Proctor and Gamble. I traveled on my own with the car over stuffed on a 13 hour drive. The car made it, remarkably. I took good care of this car too washing it and waxing it. In the end, this was MY car, I had to be seen in it, so it only made sense that it should be taken care of. On my 21st birthday, I was driving to Nashville. As I pulled into the hotel, my brakes gave out, dirty fluid shooting out underneath the car. The problem was fixed the next day and the car proved to work ok for the next year.
When I went home at the end of the summer, my sister went off to school for her first year in college and was not allowed to take a car. My brother, now 16, got his license. He helped me wax the car when I was his age. I vented to him about the frustration with how my sister took care of the car. I felt he knew the importance of this car to me. Just to remind me of my first love, I borrowed now HIS car for a test drive. The steering was sticky, the brakes were squishy, and the interior was heavily soiled. That’s part of a car’s life I guess, but it was still saddening to see the car start to fade out. I could tell she had a lot left in her and would take good care of my brother.
That winter when I went home for Christmas, I was devastated to see the shape of my silver baby. The hood was dented and elevated. The driver panel had a massive scar from coming in contact with a concrete median. The back bumper had a cylindrical indentation. What happened? Who had done this? My brother answered all my questions, and to my surprise there were two incidences, both on the same day. The first was backing out of the school parking lot and he hit a concrete post. He said that bump was his fault, but the next happening was not. On the way home, it was icy and the car spun a 180 and skidded along the guard rail and stopped via rear of the car in front of his. The damage was drivable and the car in front of him had no damage as it was a semi with heavy steel steps at the rear. I could tell he was devastated telling this news to me. He apologized because he knew how much I loved this car. It was obvious he had grown attached to her too.
My silver baby passed away this past summer after the engine block was cracked after 115,000 miles. It was decided the car was to be sent to scrap and life would move on. She was soon replaced with a Pontiac Grand Prix 2006, also silver. It was not the same. My brother liked the car better, claiming it handled more smoothly. I put many of miles on the Grand Am driving all around the state of Ohio and nearby states. I have since moved onto a new joy of my life, my dark green Honda Ridgeline 2006, but I will never forget the joy that my silver baby brought me.

Kyle Murphy and "California Dreamin'"

1955 Chevrolet Delray 210

California Dreamin’: Automobile Edition


As a lifelong Michigan resident and a current resident of one of the most historically important automobile cities in the United States you might expect me to be quite knowledgeable on automobiles. Couple that with the fact that my dad, Uncle Ron and Uncle Jim worked at the Saginaw Steering Division of GM (later turned Delphi) after high school, with the latter retiring from there after 37 years. If that weren’t a good enough reason to be an automobile enthusiast, my grandfather treated his red Cadillac like a 6th child and I grew up with “Home Improvement” as my favorite show. Unfortunately, I must admit that for reasons unbeknownst to me, I never really gained interest in cars as a youth.
Growing up many of my friends were self-proclaimed ‘car nerds’ and everywhere I have ever lived has had some role in the automotive industry and thus seems to have a permanent automotive aura surrounding it. If blame must be placed somewhere then my parents are probably most deserving. Being a child of the 90’s my sister and I were driven around by my mom in a purple mini-van and then later a white mini-van when automatic doors came out. My dad’s mode of transportation was a golf cart as we lived on the golf course for which he operated. In my eyes my childhood was as good as it could get; I played golf everyday during the summer and my mom being a teacher at my school kept me out of trouble when I had to go back to school.
My first real brush with classic American cars was when I went out to visit family in the Los Angeles area. My Aunt Marilyn is a travel agent in the area and she would fly each niece and nephew to LA, by ourselves, to visit when we turned 10 years old. When I was there we did the normal tourist things like Knott’s Berry Farm, Santa Monica Pier and Venice Beach, Griffith Observatory, SD Zoo, LA Angel’s baseball, and much more. However, my most memorable day may have been the day we had no plans. My aunt got called into work in morning so my Uncle Joe and I stayed at home without any agenda. I stayed in my room and played video games (10 years old, 1990’s, enough said!) and Uncle Joe took advantage of the perfect Southern California weather to do ‘yard work’. After an hour or so I heard him talking to neighbors and curiosity got the best of me so and I went outside. In the driveway accompanying the three admirers was a freshly waxed olive green 1955 Chevy 210 Del Ray Coupe and a black 1930 Ford Model A with rumble seat. I was in shock because in the week I had been there I had not seen inside the garage and just assumed it was the place where storage junk went to be eaten by mice, as had been the case at my house. His 1955 Bel Air had been the family car when Uncle Joe was growing up and then became his first car when he turned 16. It ended up sitting in storage from 1975 until 1999 when it undertook a year long, $20,000 restoration which included seat belts and air conditioning for those hot LA summers. I had arrived just as the restoration was finishing. It was the type of car that you felt nervous to ride in for fear of leaving smudges with your fingerprints or the car that you ask if shoes are aloud inside before entering. Once buffed into a Hollywood quality shine we were able to take a ride around the town. Had my expectations for a first car had certainly been elevated! The Del Ray was beyond great, but the Ford Model A was something that I had never seen before, in person or anywhere else, and to this day I haven’t seen another. Seeing my fascination with the Model A we decided to take it out to the local ice cream shop that night after dinner and being a two seat car I was overjoyed when I learned that I had to be the one to sit in the rumble seat. The drive over was about as you might expect, lots of honks, staring, and the occasional drive-by yeller. At the ice cream shop the attention didn’t stop, there was a big enough crowd and enough flashes from cameras that many passer-bys may have thought that Marilyn Monroe had been resurrected and come to enjoy an ice cream sundae. The real fun, however, started on the ride back. Taking a play from the more modern ford clunker , the car wouldn’t start. After several turns from the crank starter at the front of the car we gave it another shot, still nothing. It wasn’t until those turns of the crank were paired with a push start from some nice Californians that we finally had success. Needless to say that after my experience in California I gained an appreciation for classic Americans cars and the hobby of restoring those beautiful pieces of Americana. I haven’t had many experiences with classic cars since, but the few I have had reiterated lessons that I learned in L.A and lessons that probably apply to classic car lovers everywhere. First, washing and waxing cars is nowhere as fun as riding in them. Secondly, don’t even bother asking to drive, it is a waste of breathe. Lastly, nobody has ever not enjoyed classic cars; seriously when was the last time you have seen a car enthusiast frown in a classic car? In closing, I fully look forward to being able to start a car project of my own one day. My 1996 Ford Taurus is a logical start, but I am not sure that the poster child for ‘cash-for-clunkers’ will ever be held in as high esteem or historical significance as the classics I encountered in California.

UD Student "Auto" Biography -- Paige Vargas -- a Honda CR-V by the name of "Rhonda"

Paige Vargas
HST344
Prof. Heitmann
January 25, 2012
‘Auto’biography

A Name is not to be Taken Lightly

It was my sister’s 16th birthday and I looked out my window. I saw this beautiful silver Honda CR-V in my driveway with her headlights looking straight into my eyes. I fell in love. She glistened in the sunrise. I had to have her, but reality set in and I realized it was my sister’s soon-to-be car. A tear rolled down my cheek and my heart broke into two pieces. I admired from a far when my sister ran outside to see what my dad bought her. I was deeply saddened. I watched her sail away into that perfect sunrise with a smile on her face that I wanted to rip off. I wanted that car!
For six whole months I sat in the passenger seat as my sister dangled her keys in my face before we drove to school every weekday. It took everything out of me to tell her the car like me more. After six long months, I received my driving permit and she was mine! Technically she was still my sister’s, but I was sitting in the car’s throne with two hands on the wheel at ten and two. Even though I was still accompanied by a parent while driving her, but it still felt as if she was officially mine.
Only one more year of my sister driving to school in the morning and then I receive my license and I would take over the route! My 16th birthday came and my silver beauty turned flawlessly, as I had to back around a corner. I smiled for my picture, grabbed the keys out of my mom’s hand and ran straight for the parking lot. I told my car that she was officially mine! Now, she deserved a name! I cannot explain how long I thought about a name for her, but nothing suited her well enough. She needed a name that captured her radiant silver pigment and at the same time apprehended her dominance on the road.
I was cruising to school at 7:45 in the morning and to keep my mind off of being late, I switched on the radio. My sister must have changed to radio stations because an ‘oldies’ station started blaring. “Help me Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda.” I thought to myself, “Ew! What kind of music is this?” (At the time I did not know the Beach Boys sang this tune.) However, it was a big coincidence that I was racing to school and a song saying, “help me” turned on. Then it hit me! Help me Rhonda! Rhonda! That was it. Rhonda is helping me get to school on time. Even more coincidently Rhonda had the word Honda in it. The stars aligned that day for Rhonda the Honda and I. However, I did receive a tardy slip for being late.
I have stayed close with Rhonda and have never abandoned her on purpose. I could not take her to college for my first two years because my brother needed a car to learn how to drive. I found out the summer I went back to her that my brother crashed her! To say I was mad is an understatement. I thought, “How could he do that to her!” I knew I didn’t trust him with my baby! Thankfully she is fine and there was only slight damage to the front bumper. I sat my brother down and told him how special Rhonda was and that a car is a serious responsibility. He laughed. After that I convinced my parents to let me take Rhonda for the summer at Dayton and they surprisingly agreed. Those 5-hour trips from Dayton to Chicago and visa-versa were great bonding times. I had to leave her the next school year with my dangerous driving brother, but Rhonda survived.
Once I return home, I was faced with a decision that most kids are not even asked. Do I want my dad’s five-year-old Lexis with navigation and Bluetooth or let my 16-year-old brother have the prize car? The decision was easy! Rhonda was mine. My brother could ride in style with the Lexis, while I ride with pride in Rhonda. We were attached at the hip. Every time I double push lock on her keys she beeps at me and it is her way of saying, “Until next time.”
Rhonda has been through a lot over the years especially with teaching all three of us kids how to drive. However, she has stayed loyal to the people I care about most and kept us all safe and sound on the road. She will forever be my car and we still have miles of empty roads to travel together in the future.

UD "Auto-Biography" -- EMT Kyle Rismiller and his 2000 Wheeled Coach Type III Ambulance

Kyle Rismiller
Prof. John A. Heitmann
HST 344 01
25 January 2011

Driving Lights and Sirens: My “Auto” Biography
“Take it easy driving. The life you might save might be mine.” The following words were spoken by the late actor and car enthusiast James Dean just weeks before he would be involved in an accident while driving his Porsche 550 Spyder that would claim his life. His words carry a powerful message that cannot be overlooked—a haunting reminder of the responsibility one must assume whenever they are behind the wheel.
To define an automobile as a vehicle in the traditional sense of simply a means of transportation is, to me, a gross understatement. Sure, to some that may be sufficient, but to others their car may be a beloved family heirloom, a fast, racing machine, or maybe even a father-son bonding experience. However, I feel I have a special relationship with my model 2000 Wheeled Coach Type III ambulance. It is a tool upon which I, as well as the community I serve, have come to rely upon as much as the emergency medical technicians who operate it. A “vehicle” that truly makes the difference between life and death.
As I reflect upon my experiences as an EMT for over a year and a half now, I cannot help but be confronted with a mélange of emotions. I can say with sincerity that within the doors of that hulking machine I have experienced some of my proudest moments while at other times gripped by fear and anxiety, the likes of which I have never (and may never) experience elsewhere. Perhaps a story will best serve as illustration:
It was the fall of 2011 and I had just returned with my crew from staging Dayton’s largest annual rock concert known as X-Fest. Our crew was exhausted from a full day of treating and transporting patients intoxicated on only God knows what who, as a result, are usually injured in some sort of moshing activity. We only had an hour or so before our shift was over and we were looking forward to relaxing. But fate is not always so kind. Just as we returned to campus we got tones from dispatch indicating an emergency. Over the radio we were told that a young woman, clear across campus, had been violently seizing for several minutes now which is a serious situation since breathing is near impossible during the muscle convulsions of a seizure. Instinctively, and even before dispatch had finished, I flipped on the lights and sirens and quickly sped through the streets of campus, adrenaline coursing through my body. We arrived on scene to find an unconscious patient whom we immediately loaded into the ambulance while students from surrounding houses came out to see the commotion. The girl was still in critical condition and while the rest of my crew worked to stabilize her in the back of the medic, it was my job to get us to the hospital quickly and in one piece. However, there was a catch. Our target hospital, Miami Valley, is located past the fairgrounds where the thousands of people who had attended X-Fest were now frantically trying to leave. Local police had temporarily closed many of the roads in order to facilitate the efflux of traffic which left the street we needed to traverse in order to get to the hospital at a complete standstill of traffic. We had no choice but to dive straight into the sea of traffic. My hands moved quickly over the console, manipulating the sirens and horn to alert the traffic to the oncoming ambulance. Like a river through a forest, we meandered through the traffic as cars moved to the best of their ability in recognition of the emergency. In all, I probably drove on the right side of the road maybe half of the ten minutes it took to make the one mile journey. Still, because I was so familiar with the ambulance, we were able to make it to the hospital safely and in time to get the patient the care she needed.
Like the friend who has been with you through your worst and best times, I have developed a bond with my ambulance. It has taught me invaluable driving skills and confidence that I feel can only be obtained in very limited circumstances. There is no other feeling like driving with the lights and sirens of the ambulance on. Cars ahead move aside almost as if you own the road as you legally break the speed limit by sometimes as much as fifteen miles per hour. Not to mention the wave of adrenaline you feel as you prepare for the emergency ahead. The 7.3 liter turbo diesel engine is surprisingly powerful and the steering smooth and tight. I truly enjoy my job as a volunteer EMT serving the campus of UD and my experiences driving the ambulance has undoubtedly played a huge role in that.

University of Dayton student "auto-biography" -- Dayton to Daytona! -- David Bauer

David P. Bauer
HST 344
Prof. Heitmann
1/25/12
An “Auto” Biography
We were just outside of Dayton when the magnitude of the ride ahead hit all of us at once. Over sixteen hours, as few stops as possible, straight to Daytona Beach, Florida.
The past few weeks of my junior year were spent much like the last few weeks of any student’s semester. Hours of studying, reviewing, taking finals, packing, and watching as older friends became more and more nervous about graduation and the uncertain months ahead. It was over now, and as the campus breathed its collected sigh of relief, seniors cleaned up their graduation parties and prepared to leave the University of Dayton one last time.
I had already made plans with three other friends to carpool south for UD’s annual Dayton to Daytona trip. We decided to stay the last weekend at UD to see our friends off and then drive through the night to our hotel on Daytona Beach. As with any twenty-one year old with a week of no responsibility ahead, I could not be more excited to begin our trip. I still remember how sunny it was, and how quiet campus seemed even though it was packed with students only days before. After what seemed like hours, our excitement could no longer be contained and we decided to forgo our previous plans and start our trek early.
“Who cares if we get there at 5:00 AM,” I remember someone saying. “We will be in Florida on the beach.”
Persuading a group of college students to spend more time on the beach is probably easier than persuading a dog to eat a treat. We tossed our last provisions in the back of my roommate’s Subaru Outback and piled in. What came next is one of the reasons driving is such a perfect means of travel. Not only could we bring anything without the fear of getting nickel and dimed for checked luggage, but road trips require no reservations. We were only blocks from the start when we noticed a friend of ours that obviously had taken his time cleaning up after graduation. He was just loading the last bit of clothes into his car when my roommate yelled out, “Hey Ryan, congrats! Want to come to Daytona?” Now, anyone that hadn’t just received his college degree would have gotten the joke and laughed it off. Ryan didn’t. “Sure,” he called back. Before I could stop laughing, Ryan had grabbed a few items of clothing, locked his car, and piled into the back seat in between my other two friends. Name an airline that would let a passenger jump on the plane as it taxied to the runway.
We decided that, since we were leaving earlier than scheduled, we could take our time and made a route that would hit as many states as possible without going too far out of the way. We headed east on US-35 making our way to West Virginia where we could head south cutting across parts of Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. As with the majority of car trips, the drive was filled with fun and boredom, beautiful scenery and endless highways, hours that felt like minutes and minutes that could have been considered days.
My roommate was rather particular about his car and refused to let anyone else drive. The problem with this came at about 1:00 AM when his notorious inability to stay awake began to catch up with him. We stopped for gas, and I insisted he let me take over for a few hours while he slept. Reluctantly he handed me the keys, and we were off once again into the night. If only I knew what I was in the next few hours ahead.
In the middle of the night as I drove twisting and turning on a mountain road, the rain began. Pitch black and like someone with a hose pointed at the windshield, it was the worst driving conditions I have ever been in. However, I’m a good driver and pride myself in my clean record and no accidents. After an hour of rain that felt like a season, the rain was replaced with fog so thick that it would make walking dangerous. With nowhere to pull off, I decided to just stick it out as my friends all slept. Just as the fog lifted, the road leveled out, and my stress level finally began to descend, my roommate awoke and forced me to take the next exit so he could take over. We were only a few hours away.
I will always remember the feeling of pulling in to the parking lot of the hotel at just past 6:00 AM. There is something special about spending more than half a day straight in a car. A road trip adds a sense of adventure and accomplishment to travel. It makes just getting there part of the journey, part of the experience. Check in wasn’t for hours, but we didn’t care. We all got out and made our way on to the beach stretching and enjoying the feeling of all being able to walk, move, and unbend our legs. We sat together on the beach for hours, staring out at the ocean, and talking about the week ahead. A car is more than a means of getting from one place to another. It allows traveling to a destination to be part of the vacation, instead of a requirement that needs to be completed for the vacation to begin.