Anyone who knows me knows I am all about road trips. I will drive pretty much anywhere given the choice. I don’t mind flying, it’s a control thing. I like having control. That combined with security lines, airport hassles, delays, tarmac waiting, and crying babies in an oxygen deprived confined space makes driving my preferred method of travel, if time allows.

So there we were, Frankie and I, driving cross-country from the North East Coast to the Midwest in the dead of winter. The plan was to take turns driving. Not a problem for yours truly, used to trekking long distances via four door sedans. Although I can’t remember if Frankie’s car was a four door sedan. It was a Kia. Like a 2000 Kia. Did they make four door Kia’s back then? Oh, and it was the size of a matchbox. Regardless it was Frankie’s precious vehicle and likely most prized possession next to his Macintosh computer.

We’d taken off in the evening, planning to drive overnight and miss most of the daytime traffic. It was my turn once we hit New York State. Somewhere near Buffalo, a solid 300 miles of me behind the wheel, is when I realized the parking brake was on. Frankie was fast asleep on the passenger’s side. It was like 2 in the morning. So I did what any person realizing they’re driving with the parking brake on at speeds upwards of 80mph does – I nonchalantly released it. And totally swore to NEVER do it again.  And I didn’t. Till after the rest stop in Pennsylvania… oops.

In my defense, who uses a parking brake to actually park? Especially on a solid flat surface? I never told him what I did. Not really sure he had any parking brake left after I had at it. Probably should have told him …The lesson should be don’t let me drive your car, but really I think we all know it’s never to use your parking brake unless you’re in San Francisco.