Future NASCAR driver or inmate


Awesome story. I still can’t believe how you guys kept pressing your luck and still got away!

I hate to keep this off topic, but I also have great memories of that era Trans Am. This one is similar to the one my dad had while I was in high school/college (his had red cloth seats, though), and he even let me drive it a couple weeks to school both in college and high school.

79 trans am

Those things really were woefully under-powered, but still heck of a lot of fun to drive. At least it had a 4-barrel carb that would kick in and had some decent get up when you stepped on it. The speedometer only went to 100, but one Sunday morning on I-75 south of Flint, I had it wrapped down to 6 o clock (or just past I seem to recall), so no idea how fast I was going, heh.


Yeah, I really derailed the hell out of this thread. Or rather, I outright stole it. I really should have started a new one, but at the time of my first post, I had no intention of recounting the entire story. My apologies to @Mark_Asher.

It all depended on the year, and the engine option. The early ones that came with the 455 could be absolute beasts.
The years after that contained a huge variety of engine options that were mostly fairly decently-powered.
By 1981 (the final year of the 2nd gen T/A), the only engine option remaining for the T/A was the anemic small-block 301. I had one of those too, and while it was still a gorgeous-looking car (white with T-tops, red bird and red cloth interior), the Camaro of the same year (which still offered the 350) had far more power.


No no no! I just posted a weird story about a ten year old leading the police on a chase. The fun thing about a forum like this isn’t the initial post, but the comments and where they lead. You posted a unputdownable story. Awesome!


I can’t believe I almost missed your posts by not clicking this thread since I’d already seen the news story about the 10-year-old in the stolen car.

@Giles_Habibula, that was epic! Thanks so much for telling it. You are my hero! Well, anti-hero, I guess, given that your story is about a couple of child criminals.



Well, two thoughts.

  1. Crazy story, reminds me of the time my friend and I went for a drive in a classic Mustang, except that it belonged to his family so it wasn’t stolen and the only illicit part is that his folks didn’t know. Just like the characters in this story we had fuel issues.

  2. I donated to Qt3 a month back or so and stuff like this makes me feel like I need to make another donation.


This is in regards to the story I posted above. So,


I need to preface the following by stating that I currently work as a driver for the region’s paratransit system.

A few days ago while working in my bus, I picked up an older guy from the kidney dialysis unit at one of the Bismarck hospitals. I noticed his address where I’d be taking him to was in the southwest part of Mandan, across the river, which is the same part of town where my story’s chase scene ended.

We picked up a few more people, who were all going to Mandan, and then I took them across the river, where I began dropping them off. The last passenger to be dropped off was the guy going to the southwest section.

I noticed on my bus tablet that just below his address in the notes, it told me that he needed to be picked up and dropped off in the alley, so I began calculating how I was going to do that while dropping him off so that the exit door of the bus would be facing the correct side, to keep his walking distance short, as he had great difficulty in walking, and would require assistance.

As I turned the bus into the alley, I recognized where we were. This was the alley where I collapsed that night, and tried to throw up. It turned out that the guy I was dropping off actually lived in what I had previously thought was the shed where I had lay with my back against it. Not a shed, instead it was a very tiny old house, about the size of my living room, square in shape, and painted a dingy yellow. I honestly cannot remember the color of the “shed” I was up against that night, but my recognition alarm bells were all ringing loudly, and the paint looked very old. Hell, the very same 3-foot wire fence was still there! It was all bent up 40 years later, but it was the same fence.

Apparently he rents this little alley house/shed from the owner, who lives in the main house, which is located in a normal street-side location. This main house was the same house I had run alongside to get into the fenced-in back yard where the “shed” was/is. The main house is also where the little barking dog was.

This was exciting for me, and I really wanted to ask him how long he had lived there. He looked to be abut 75, so it was conceivable that he lived in that house 40 years ago as well. But he was definitely not feeling well, and was in a foul mood, and of course, if I asked him a question like that, he’d probably want to know why I was asking. In which case, I’d ask him if he remembered any commotion outside his window 40 years ago, which would lead to my needing to outline the story again for him, and I didn’t have time. So I didn’t ask.

It’s just amazing to me that after all these years, two weeks after I finally posted that story, I am dropping a man off at that exact location. I mean, I have not been down that alley in 40 years. What are the odds that I’d be at that very same house/shed after all this time, and just after writing everything down? After I got him into the house, I just stood there for a moment, soaking it all in. Everything appeared to be exactly as I had left it, except that now there were no snow banks.


You know you want to go back in the near future to knock on his door and ask if he remembers. And also to check on how he’s doing after his dialysis, of course.



@tomchick At the time of the adventure, I had a part-time job after school working as a delivery driver for the local dry cleaner. One of the accounts I had to service every weekday was the Mandan Police Department. I’d have to go in to their locker room, hang up the clean uniforms, and pick up the dirty ones.

I cannot begin to tell you how terrified I was, knowing that on the following Monday afternoon, I would have to march right into the police department, chat with any officers that happened to be there, and do my job.

The thing is, I was acquainted with all of the officers because of my job. Which is yet one more reason I was so amazed that we never got caught. There were times during that chase (specifically on the railroad tracks, and when I blundered into the patrol car after I had climbed the bridge abutment) that some of those cops were not that far behind me, and yet apparently none of them recognized me. Of course, it was the middle of the night and dark, but there were flood lights in the train yard, and a lot of snow reflecting that light, so visibility was not that bad. Not only that, but what the hell happened to my gloves with my name in them after I’d lost them the second time?

Anyway, yeah, for years following that, especially after the statute of limitations was up, I wanted so badly to talk with officer Hoff in particular (because I recognized him during the chase) to get his side of the story. Actually, I would have liked to talk with any of them, as I knew some of them fairly well, but especially him, because I recognized him, and because he was a really decent guy who would have appreciated it.

But I never did, and to this day it bothers me a little, because during the last ten years or so, I’ve been seeing their obituaries pop up in the paper now and then, and if there are any left alive from that night, there certainly aren’t many, and I’m fairly sure that all of the ones I knew have all passed on.