A 1970 Riviera in Emerald Mist, as it appeared in Part 1.
After an extended hiatus, I am resuming my COAL series. In Part I, I covered the Riviera’s introduction to our household in the mid-’70s, including my instant attraction to its performance and unique styling elements. As we enter Part 2, it’s 1982; the Buick was back in service as my father no longer had a company car. Our lifestyle had changed and not in a positive way.
The Green Machine is Back, in Black
The Buick got a bit of a makeover in the summer of 1982 — a respray from its original Emerald Mist with a Sherwood Green sweepspear to black with a silver sweepspear. I never minded the green, myself. But when one is a car crazy 15 year-old, one brainstorms all sorts of great ideas, like adding Buick factory road wheels, swapping the full fender skirts for the shorty ones, and . . . wouldn’t the Riv look absolutely bitchin’ in black with a silver sweepsear?
Polaroids: Convenience at the expense of clarity. Dressed in black and ready to attack!
We never got the wheels or shorty skirts, but the car got painted black with a silver sweepspear. There was no rational reason to get the car painted. The Emerald Mist still presented well and, thanks to a quality Ziebart application and multiyear garage hibernation, the car had little rust. There was also the cost, as money was in increasingly short supply. We’d sold our house earlier in ’82 and resumed renting (again); the sale proceeds funded our living expenses as well as my parents’ business expenses. Financially, the fuel gauge needle was on E.
But, to say that my father didn’t always make rational decisions would be an understatement. And, as predicted, the Riviera did look absolutely bitchin’ in black.
Another fuzzy Polaroid: Your scribe, Mr. Dreamboat 1982, posing next to his (someday) car. Note pre-repo Accord in background. Also note blue Nike baseball shirt and matching sneakers.
(Drop the) Hammer Time
In mid-June 1983, I turned 16, the magic age to start the learner’s permit/driver’s license doubleheader in New York. I was anxious to get my license but once my permit was in hand, my practice time was limited.
My birthday put me on top of the start date for the next driver’s education class. Reluctant to jump into driver’s ed with essentially no wheel time, I waited until early 1984 to take it. In the meantime, I practiced through the summer and fall of ‘83. I was game to “master” driving ASAP. Let’s drive!
The Taskmaster and the Mentor
My father was good at many things; driving instruction was not one of them. As his limited patience dwindled, he rattled off 11 things that I, behind the wheel:
- Did not do right previously, and/or
- Were not doing right currently, and/or
- Were probably not going to do right in the future
All before I even addressed the first thing. I lacked clairvoyance regarding driving skills, so that was a problem. That I also lacked his 35 years of accident-free driving experience never crossed his mind. So, practice driving with him was a mystery box of good and not-so-good.
The Taskmaster and the Mentor, posing for holiday party pictures, circa 1980. One of my favorite pictures of them.
My mother, on the other hand, just rode along with me and observed. She calmly shared her guidance and comments as I drove. She was low key. She didn’t verbally buckshot me with 11 things at once. She didn’t get exasperated. Surprisingly, I was much more comfortable when she accompanied me.
Wide C pillars, small rear window and fastback-ish profile was a design delight, but challenging to master as a driver.
A Challenging “Student Driver” Car
I’m just gonna say it: the Riviera was a lousy “student driver” car. Its visually interesting attributes now conspired to challenge me. Long (215.2 in.) and wide (79.3 in.), it had limited visibility and pronounced blind spots. In a nod to the 1960’s, it had no passenger side exterior mirror (!). Its smallish, heavily raked rear window and sweptback tail ensured that you had no sense of how close the back of the car was to anything around it. What a confidence-builder!
My mother was having none of that, so she got the Accord, covered in a previous COAL installment. But by this time, the Accord was gone baby, gone, a night time repo in the summer of 1983. My parents and the bank supposedly had an agreement where we retained the car and caught up on missed payments. Apparently, the repo man didn’t get the memo. By default (no pun intended), the Riviera became not just the “student driver” car, but also the only car.
1988 Skyhawk. Our driver ed car was a “barely beige” non-metallic, not this sexy metallic red.
As a counterpoint, for multiple Saturday mornings in early 1984, we three bleary-eyed driver ed students and our instructor crammed ourselves in an ‘84 Buick Skyhawk station wagon. While not particularly “Buick-y” to me, its scads of glass and trim exterior dimensions made the Skyhawk a breeze to drive around Monroe County and, periodically, towards Canandaigua Lake. It was easy to place and maintain within the lane, while also simple to parallel park and K-turn. All the things a student driver needed to know.
How did we get here?
Looking back, I can think of few cars that were worse to own, let alone be one’s only car, in the early-to-mid 80’s than a ‘70 Riviera. Big, when cars were smaller and more rationally designed. Thirsty, when cars were more fuel efficient and gas was expensive. Anyone else remember buying a half-tank of regular leaded and a half-tank of premium unleaded in an attempt to cover both your car’s octane and valve seat needs?
My father picked me up at night from my part-time job. I could easily spot him, even though he wasn’t near the entrance. How? Those illuminated low beams were so far away from each other.
In the ‘80s, a ’70 Riviera was both unique and embarrassing; its appearance both outrageous and dated. It also had, to quote Sam Smith, formerly of Road & Track, “the resale value of an old sandwich.” (I love that line.) We tried and tried to sell it, to no avail. (Oh, how we tried.) We were stuck with it.
However, it was dependable, started easily in any weather, had meat locker-grade R-12 A/C, and all the power equipment worked. It also had street presence and could gather a small crowd in a parking lot. Its 4,200 lb. curb weight and sensitive throttle linkage made it quite capable in the winter; with rear snow tires it would do a crawl speed standing start with little to no wheelspin in snowy weather. So, it had its, ahem, “practical” attributes.
Finding My Way . . .
When not practicing driving or working, I was a high school junior trying to find my direction in life. In late 1983, I started making progress. All of my friends were now at our lone high school, rather than scattered across multiple middle schools. I appeared in Guys and Dolls that fall and made friends with some seniors in the cast, which expanded my social circle.
We may have not been Broadway-ready, but I loved doing Guys and Dolls, our fall musical.
In spring of 1984, over 3,000 high school kids auditioned for one of 32 spots in a state-sponsored “summer school of the arts” for theater. By now, I felt like I could compete. So, I did. And I won a spot, thanks to feedback from peers and teachers, lots of rehearsal and practice, and two good auditions. Winning something “big” (in your teenaged mind) for the first time is a funny feeling when you’re almost 17. It certainly was a confidence-builder!
I found my “thing,” something I’m good at, I thought to myself. Now anything was possible. Shortly before my 17th birthday in June 1984, I took my road test. Was I concerned about driving the Riviera for the road test? You bet. I had much more driving time in the Skyhawk. Did I get a 100 like I scored in the Skyhawk during our practice road test? No. Did I pass the first time in the Riviera? Yes. Hey, more winning!
Your scribe, Mr. Moody Guy 1984, around road test time. Note my father’s consistency in cutting an element from the image. In this case, it was the nose of the car.
I drove the Buick to school one early June morning for final exams. While waiting to turn into the parking lot, I was behind the car of one of the nicest and most popular girls in school. She looked in her rear view mirror, just as I looked ahead at her rear view mirror. (For purposes of this story, we’ll say I never previously looked at her mirror.) When we caught each other’s eye, she gave me her 10,000 watt smile and a wave.
Your scribe, Mr. Solo Driver 1984, now chipper and carefree. Note how our pictures are of the driver’s side. The passenger’s side skirt no longer stayed on and we couldn’t locate a replacement.
Sunglasses on, I smiled and waved back, briefly uncurling and extending my fingers from the top of the steering wheel while my thumb stayed hooked to the wheel.
So much winning! I gleefully thought.
. . . Or Maybe I’m Still Lost
When things are going your way, you forget that they can also stop going your way, too. Meanwhile, I headed to Skidmore College to “fulfill my destiny” at theater school.
Skidmore College, Saratoga Springs, NY. A tony college (Tuition: $79K) in a tony town.
In summary: To paraphrase Back To The Future’s George McFly, I found my density, not my destiny. Spent four weeks there; didn’t enjoy much of it. Our acting instructors (from New York City) were quite enigmatic and odd; I thought they rather enjoyed their psychological game-playing that certain students (myself included) endured. I felt off-balance and unsure of myself. This was supposed to be fun, I lamented. I didn’t “get” the appeal of campus living, and spent much of my time feeling uncomfortable. Relating to so many new people simultaneously was beyond my grasp as well.
In the end, I found the experience neither transformative nor encouraging; I felt like an imposter, accidentally chosen and trying to make it through. Today, I refer to it jokingly as “missing the opportunity exit ramp” on the Thruway of Life, or TOL. On the TOL, you can’t U-turn and you can’t start all over again. The exit ramp just fades in the rear view mirror, leaving you feeling as if you missed some revelation that everyone else got. So, I returned home at the end of July in a grim mood. I’d squandered my opportunity and shared my Skidmore experiences with no one. Home life was uncomfortable–things were still tough and money was still tight.
And Then, “Ska-Booom!”
Three weeks later I wrecked the Riviera. As in destroyed it, totaled it, and “lucky-to-be-here-talking-to-you-all-today” kind of accident. Some kids constantly did low-to-moderate grade stupid stuff. Not me–my parents let me do pretty much I wanted; they trusted me and I had earned that trust. But on the very rare occasions that I did something epically stupid, it was at All-Star/Hall of Fame (or Shame) level, like wreck our only car.
It’s a typical teen driving story. My best friend John and I were dropping off the Riviera at my house; John’s license allowed night driving and my license did not. John threw the gauntlet as he passed me unexpectedly (in an Aries K-car, no less) while we were still in his neighborhood. Naturally, at 17 this unprovoked act of aggression cannot go unanswered. I had two options:
Option A: Go the back way to my house, and maybe get there before he does, if all goes well.
Option B: Continue on current route and execute retaliatory passing maneuver, as Buick 455/Turbo 400 combo is righteous!
Buick 455 V8: Righteousness personified.
Naturally, I chose Option B, partly due to overconfidence in drivetrain righteousness, partly because Option A, the back way, took me past our old neighbors’ house. If they saw a certain black-with-silver-sweepspear Riviera go screaming past their house, it would not go unmentioned to my parents. I couldn’t blame it on the other 30 black-with-silver-sweepspear Rivieras running around town.
So, foot to the floor and righteousness invoked, I moved into the oncoming lane to pass, then realized a dip in the road ahead hid an oncoming car. That oncoming car was suddenly very visible and my righteous drivetrain was roaring towards it. I tried to quickly slow down and return to my lane but my steering and brake inputs were too extreme. The Buick’s rear end got squirrelly and the car beelined towards a drainage ditch next to my lane. I attempted to countersteer away from the ditch, but overcorrected and sent the car careening sideways into the oncoming lane at an unknown speed, where the original oncoming car (a ‘77-‘79 Delta 88) t-boned the Buick hard, right on the passenger’s door.
No stoplights, turn lanes or community center in ’84, just a two-lane road with land around it. Red circle identifies dip location; road was later regraded. One can now see all the way up the hill.
Being in an out of control car hurtling at a good clip across lanes as an oncoming car speeds towards you is terrifying. If you’ve not experienced it, please continue to avoid it.
The events above occurred very quickly. My friend John said that when the Delta 88 hit the Buick, the Buick nearly rolled over, but instead crashed back down. The last thing I remembered was the Delta 88’s front end, framed perfectly in the passenger side window, heading right for me. I had just enough time for that “watery stomach” feeling signifying impending doom. Then, nothing. Then, I woke up in the car shortly after the impact. Then, out again. Then, I woke up on the grass next to the car (I crawled out).
I kept pictures of the wrecked remains in a 40-odd year “safe storage” location. As I prepared for this COAL, I recently retrieved them then lost them in the house, which I’ve vainly searched multiple times. Naturally, they were Polaroids, so no negative.
But I found a set online that are disturbingly close enough. See below.
“Ska-Booom!” we said in high school. (“Boom!” alone was inadequate, I guess.) Front passenger would have no chance. However, with a passenger, I probably wouldn’t have tried passing.
The passenger door was rammed so far into the interior that I could easily touch the outside of that door while in the driver’s seat.
A lot of combined energy here. As shown on this car, the impact on our car was also above the rocker panel/sill, as I recall it.
Epilogue
I figure I used up 98% of my lifetime luck allotment that evening. As far as I knew, the Delta 88 driver had cuts and bruises and was stunned from the impact, but was otherwise OK. I was not wearing a seat belt and I walked away with whiplash, a concussion, and the worst case of Poison Ivy my pediatrician had ever seen (his words) from where I landed after crawling out the car.
I looked at the wreck in the towing service storage lot and thought, “This thing has ‘dead man’s car’ written all over it.” I have no idea how I not only survived, but walked away with no real injuries. My mother always thought it was too much car for me, and she was right.
FYI, John, my best friend in 1984 (and before that) is still my best friend in 2025.
I was rightly ticketed. We got a $600 payout from the insurance company, which made me feel as worthless as a square tire. I started my senior year of high school the following week. The judge threw out my ticket when the responding officer didn’t provide the accident deposition we requested. That was my remaining 2% of luck being used. As we left the town hall, my father said, “You. Are. One. Lucky. kid.”
My father never bitched me out. He never mentioned the additional financial pressure. He never threw the accident back in my face. He said that it was an “error of judgement” and that those things happen sometimes.
Years later, when I told my wife about his incredible poise, I said it was because he knew how awful I already felt. She said it was because he was grateful that his boy wasn’t dead. She’s probably right. She also thinks I still feel bad about wrecking the car. She’s probably right about that, too.
In any event, we were in the market for a new (to us) car. What does a broke family, with a $600 insurance settlement and no credit, buy next? We’ll see in the next COAL installment.
Related CC reading:
Curbside Classic: 1968 Buick Riviera – Riding The Curve
Cohort Classic: 1970 Buick Riviera GS Roadster – Sawzall Edition, Sans Top
Great story, esp. the part where you survived! My Dad had (has) a similar demeanor, and the one time he didn’t bust my chops was when I had my first and only wreck at age 16. Your writing brought back great and similar memories…..driver’s ed on the “range course” in a Pontiac 6000 in 1985, followed by actual road lessons/testing in a Citation II. My great uncle, 86 y.o. at that time, had a 1970 Electra 225 he bought new. He wanted to give it to me, and I was thrilled. I liked it a lot, fresh repaint in the factory silver with a black roof and black interior. My Dad said “no way” and he made a good call. I probably would have hurt myself or someone else. They gave me my COAL 1982 BMW 320i instead, which ironically was a much safer car with all of 101 hp. With the A/C on a postal jeep would outrun it.
What great writing. And an excellent story. That wreck could have easily been so much worse.
I got my license in 1979 and took my driver’s test in our 1978 Buick Electra. But, in 1979, my dad lost everything. He was a builder/realtor and had 11 brand new homes ready. But the economy tanked. The Buick was supposed to go to me, but he returned it.
I worked at a gas station and at my school (doing odd jobs) to support our family before he could find work.
I’m looking forward to part three.
This is truly a dramatic tale and exactly why we love COALs so much. Thanks for writing this.
Similar tale here, my Dad was a horrible instructor with zero patience and Mom filled the bill with a calm demeanor while I drove her 8 year old 72 Malibu sport coupe. Took my road test in the middle of traffic on a cobblestone road in Newark, NJ -no closed course back then. Failed backing up. Soon after our out on my own, I promptly lost control after some friends chided me. Hit a neighbors’ house and a telephone pole support wire, wiping the passenger side quarter panel and planting the headlight in their cedar siding. My 67 Lemans wasn’t totaled, but looked really bad. After many apologies, Dad stoically repaired the damage to the house and never said a word about it again.
Wow, lucky to be alive is right! That side pic of the wrecked Riv shows why side door intrusion beams were required just a few years later, especially valuable for a coupe with very long doors like that. A B-pillar would have helped also, a 4 dr sedan might have fared better.
My daughter got hit very hard in the passenger side in her 15 yr old 240 Volvo while in med school in Baltimore City by a guy who ran a red light at high speed. He had no insurance but the car fared reasonably well and at least she was unhurt.
BTW Chris – Washington Ave in Endicott has just undergone an extensive refurb and is looking considerably better these days! Endicott in general is sprucing up somewhat and the whole Bingo area is having a bit of a resurgence, thanks to all the battery tech money and growth, and the great reputation of Binghamton University in recent years.
The entire 1942 WWII era IBM building just E of McKinley is now gone, and the one on the W side has been repaired. The big new 2 level DIck’s at Oakdale Mall is their biggest in the USA with a skating rink & outside running track, and inside climbing wall, and even that mall is faring much better than most these days with some new additions. Things are looking up around here!
Although I prefer the ’63-67 Rivieras, I must say that ’70 looks wicked cool in black, it’d get much positive attention in any high-school parking lot these days!
Excellent story and I re-read part one first and saw I posted. I also love what was then your Riviera.
I took state sponsored drivers ed in summer high school at age 15 and on my 16th birthday Dad took me out of school for my drivers test. It was early 1967, and I was gifted what had been my Moms 1963 T-Bird. I was free at last and Dad was free from driving me to school because I kept missing the school bus the month previously. Just a few months later my first minor but traumatic accident was in the school parking lot. I cut a corner too close and dented the passenger door on a metal post. This was on a Thursday and that night myself and friends tried to fix the large dent. No luck bending back that thick steel on 1960s cars. That night parked the car on the street with the dent facing away from the house because I couldn’t yet face up to Dad, maybe the car got hit on the street was my plan? Of course I never parked on the street but to my 16 year old self it sounded plausible. Friday night it was always off to cruise around Steve’s Drive In, Fayetteville NC home of Fort Bragg and Pope AFB. Myself and friends hung out at Steve’s and not the other drive-ins populated by high schoolers. Steve’s was the hangout for all the young G.I.s at our military town. Of course Dad banned me from going to Steve’s and hanging out with G.I.s only a few years older than me. Here’s the rub, pun intended. The drill at Steve’s was circle, then park, circle, park, and continue for hours displaying all the beautiful, then new, 1960s muscle cars . So I was doing one of my laps and a young G.I, pulled out of his parked space and bang, hit my passenger side door, elaborating on my already dented door. Of course he had been drinking a little and management called the city police. A crowd gathered, my favorite car hop Betty disappeared with any offending beer cans in the immediate area, and city police arrived. One G.I. with military tags and one teenager in a T-Bird with officers military tags (Dad was a retired Colonel). The M.P.s were called and they called Dad and got him out of bed. Its now 1:00 AM and Dad arrives in his 1966 T-Bird to the scene of two city police cars, two M.P. cars, flashing lights and a crowd of slightly unstable G.I.’s. From the look of it you would have thought it was a major crime scene and not a minor fender binder. Thankfully, my friends who had been in my car, also a little unstable, had disappeared into the crowd. Apparently they were going to arrest the young guy who hit me. But Colonel Dad, a take charge kind of guy, talked to the city police, the M.P.s and the young G.I. He talked to everyone except me and the car hop Betty. The end result was the G.I was let go without a ticket to be driven back to base by his friends. I followed Dad home at around 2:00 AM, he never said a word, just went back to bed. I really thought I was going to be grounded until I was at least an old man of 21 without my beloved T-Bird. But the next week he had my Bird repaired and I was back driving to school on Thursday, one week to the day when I dented the door. I always respected Dad for what he did for that young G.I. and not coming down hard on me for an evening of bad choices. Perhaps Dad had made a few poor choices when he was a young man getting ready to deploy in WWII.
Long story, but I did admit to Dad one night three decades later that I had already dented the door of my T-Bird. I was honest with him, it only took about 30 years. He just laughed. Of course in 1969, Dad borrowed my 1963 T-Bird and totaled it. Another story, for another time, that also resulted in good memories with my Dad.
What a read! Despite the fact that my father was a difficult person, he never harped on the severe accident that I endured on August 15, 1958. He left me and me brother alone, perhaps because of my mother, but even after she died in 1963, he did not rail on us. I was the straddle passenger on a motor scooter that was as big as a motorcycle, a German Progress by make. We were hemmed into traffic in The Bronx at 11:30 PM by a drunk. As we toppled onto the concrete traffic island, my brother sustained friction burns to the left arm. I sustained front and posterior concussions, broken bones, aa more. I was hospitalized for fifteen days, missed the first six weeks of my junior year in high school, had to learn with my right hand to take notes and to this day live with the residua of this accident, including now bent over due to arthritis of the entire spine. Knees are bad, they also hit the island. Shoulders have been bas since I felt them the morning after the crash – when I awoke from a coma. So, good for your Dad for not harping on this issue. I still continued to live, to laugh, to dance, marry, raise children and so forth. Love youe essay. In my own way, I have been there.
Perhaps a new thread on young driving indiscretions. Late 1967, I was with my best friends, Paula & JoAnn. Paula had just recently received a yellow SS 1967 Camaro for her 16 birthday. Our parents told us not to leave town yet there we were 60 miles from town, late at night on a four lane highway. Paula driving about 50 mph, at the speed limit,, listening to her favorite song on the radio, then crash. A drunk driver pulled out in front of us, no time to break, T-boned the other car. Paula died, JoAnn went through the windshield, passenger in the other car died. Drunk driver in the other car just broke his leg. It took awhile for me to be cut out of the back seat but I was only twisted, not broken. I remember to this day. To this day I won’t even back out of the driveway without my seatbelt attached.
My parents never questioned why we had driven out of town. Suppose they were just happy I was alive after two others died.
The story ends with the drunk driver never appearing in court and he was not convicted due to a technical legal issue. Apparently he was on probation for another drunk driving manslaughter charge. Paula’s father was a wealthy doctor. The other driver just disappeared, so go figure. Justice served.
This has been a sobering story. Besides all the fun of the memories of being a young driver, there are also usually recollections of many “close calls.” While young drivers usually have better reaction times than much older drivers, they often lack the better judgement to make safe choices. It’s often the close calls that teach us better judgement. I have a favorite saying, “A dangerous incident can either end up as a tragedy, or just as a good story!” Hopefully most of them will end up as stories.
By the way, your Riviera looked super bad in black.
Wow, quite a story! I had been wondering where “the Riviera writer” had gone, as I recalled your COALs up to the point of your family getting that car.
I have been very fortunate, having never been involved in an injury-producing car crash, and I’m now in my 70s. Yes, there were some near misses, not all of them my fault, and many more lapses in good judgment.
Thinking way back in time and I realize that I never had any driving practice with my father in his Cougar. I do remember nighttime driving school using a 1968 Dodge Dart. If I did any home practice driving it would have been in my mother’s 68 Plymouth Satellite wagon. That was the car for my driving test. After the test my father’s 68 Cougar became my car and have driven it ever since. My only car crash, involving me only, happened when 20 in my mother’s 74 Pinto wagon. Me visiting home with Cougar in San Diego. That was interesting.
Outstanding story and great writing – thanks for sharing.
This did, of course, get me thinking of my own student-driver days with Dad. My father was a tough person with an explosive temper, but interestingly he was a good driving teacher and mentor for me. I think since we both enjoyed driving, it was one of the few things we could see eye-to-eye on.
But I was terrified of what would happen (regarding dad’s temper) if I ever got into an accident. Once when I was a teenager, I hit another car while driving in a parking lot. This was one of dad’s sternest warnings to me – don’t drive fast in parking lots. And I did one day, and paid the price for it. To my amazement, dad was calm and said he hoped I learned my lesson. I did.
When I was 20, I was in a serious accident while driving on I-40. Your mention of “being in an out-of-control car hurtling across lanes” is a feeling I find hard to describe but that I’ll never forget. Dad was very understanding – never critical of the fact that I exercised poor judgement and shouldn’t have been in that accident. I’ve long been appreciative that he didn’t kick me while I was down for either of those incidents.
You seem very conflicted about the car. Maybe a personality difference. The reason a crowd would gather around a 1970 car in the 80″s is because they were revered . You would have been a stud in my high-school. The dudes would be envious and hotest chics would pay notice. Oh wait . Sounds familiar….
Glad you didn’t die. I have seen that tragedy play out lost a dear friend the week of his graduation a chevelle that would look right at home in the school parking lot next to the buick.
WHEW ! .
Glad you made it and are here to tell the story well .
-Nate