At some point in time most of us have taken a ride in a taxicab. I’ve ridden in them periodically, with my last time being in a Prius in Chicago early last year.
Coincidentally, it was in Chicago I took my very first cab ride in the early 1980s. It was in a yellow Chevrolet Impala of this vintage; these were simply everywhere at the time. Thankfully the drivers I experienced were all good as they didn’t pull any shenanigans to make me remember them for all the wrong reasons.
Such cannot be said for a trip to Washington D.C. in the summer of 1989. With my parents and sister in the backseat, I was riding shotgun in the 1976 or 1977 Aspen wagon that was plying the streets of my nation’s capital.
We were staying at the L’enfant Plaza Hotel. The driver – who could barely see over the dashboard – was in the right lane of a nearby tunnel, the lane was about to terminate, and there was line of cars to our left, lead by a UPS truck. The driver tackled the throttle, giving us a spine tingling stereophonic concert of mechanical sounds only a Chrysler 318 can make, making the seams in the tiles along the walls become indistinguishable. My father later told me we had topped 100 mph in that tunnel to pass the lumbering UPS truck.
The driver had room to spare before the lane ended. Being sixteen at the time, I thought this ride was smoking hot groovy cool. If it happened now with my family I would strangle the driver.
Without a doubt my journey in that clapped out Aspen has been my most memorable taxi ride. What was yours? And what was the car?
The town where I grew up, the city bus, taxi, school bus and inter urban bus fleets were all owned and operated by the same company. Since kindergarten had half day classes, the few bussed students rode the bus to school and were taken home in a taxi. This was 1961, the taxis were all Checker Marathons, if we were lucky, we got one of the cabs with the folding jump seats. Can you imagine that happening in the US today? Half a dozen six year olds crammed into the back seat of a car with no booster seats or seat belts, maybe sitting on flimsy folding seats, maybe standing. Today, the company would be shut down and the drivers arrested
My first taxi ride, at age 11, circa 1986, a Checker Marathon driven by an amputee WW2 vet. I was amazed that the car had over 400,000 miles. The Checker seemed like it had seen combat duty, and the driver told me a land mine had taken his leg off. Back then both the cabbie and the car seemed like they were from another universe.
Las Vegas, April 1997. I was there for the Golden Air Tattoo at Nellis AFB, an epic international airshow marking the USAF’s 50th anniversary. My flight from STL arrived after Thrifty Car Rental’s office had closed for the night so I took a cab (my first cab ride) to the hotel.
The cab was an early aero Crown Vic P71 with the telltale 140 mph speedo and “Police Interceptor” decals on the rear door windows. Like most of the taxis I saw in Las Vegas, the cop steelies had been replaced with white aftermarket steelies similar to those on a lot of RVs and boat trailers.
The most memorable part of that short ride was simply taking in the glorious assault on the senses that is Las Vegas Blvd after midnight.
The next morning I took the hotel shuttle to the Thrifty office to get my CC-worthy rental…a Mercury Mystique in a very ’90s shade of teal.
In 2003 I was in Amsterdam, took a cab from Schipol Airport to my hotel, what a ride, it was in Buick Roadmaster of all things, the driver drove like a mad man, drove down the light rail tracks, ran lights etc. Was the most fun and scariest cab ride of my life!
Ironically, I can’t really think of one that was memorable and/or hairy . I’ve taken taxis in
Japan (immaculate Nissan Crews & Toyota Comforts),
London(Polite driver, true London cabby, real London Cab)
Korea (Iots over the years, although I do fondly recall a mid-90s ride in a Stellar with 422,000kms on it! or 7 or so years later where the old gent could take his eyes off his new in-dash TV in his Grandeur )
Singapore (new clean Comfort), Hong-Kong (oh those Crown Comforts, I love ’em),
Macau (also Comforts & Crews)
Thailand (clapped out Corollas mostly)
Jedda, Saudi Arabia (dodgy Nissan Cedrics, 50% with lit airbag lights and duct-tape over the torn area of the steering wheel) ,
Philippines (old Corollas with CVs so shot they clicked going straight ahead)
China (clapped out A2 Jetta without rear belts since the gov didn’t require them),
plus I could write a taxi biography of all the one I’ve taken in Vancouver over the last 20 years. Progressed from the 80s B-Body GM to repurposed P71 Panthers to the Prius which now dominates. Could it have been my very ever first ride in a taxi as a 5 year old? Going downtown shopping with my mom (it was a new ’65 full-sized Plymouth, likely a Savoy).
After all that, I would have to say it was in Manilla about 10 years ago, going from the domestic terminal to the international one. We came to a stop and the driver told me to make sure my door was locked. It was, and before I could think why, the whole car was overrun by street urchins, child beggars, a couple of whom tried the door handle.
Not scary, just sobering and eye opening. I’d traveled a lot, but the PI was first truly poor country I’d been to. That is tied only by a ride I took in Saskatoon in late 1996 in an Acura Legend with 450,000 kms on it that belied it’s age not one whit, other than a jumping speedo needle.
I had to think before I wrote this, because circumstances have had me as a taxi passenger since I was a child, and continues to this day.
Jason, that actually sounds terrifying. I’m glad that Aspen didn’t crap out for some miscellaneous reason.
I can think of one taxi ride from the year I spent in my father’s native Liberia in 1983 – ’84 as a fourth grader, and in the capitol city of Monrovia.
My mom and I were headed into the city from the mission house to run some errands, so we hailed a taxi – which was customarily already full of a bunch of people. I was in a snit about something, so once I squeezed into the back seat of a new, c. ’82 Toyota Corolla 4-door with three other adults (including Mom), I somehow managed to be able to slam the door in anger.
In response to this, the driver of the car turned his head around, looked directly at me angrily and told me there was “no need” for me to behave in such a manner in his new car.
It’s one thing for a parent or guardian to tell you not to do something, but it’s another thing altogether for a basic stranger to tell you just how it is and how it’s going to be. You had better believe I behaved for the rest of that (very fast) ride through Monrovia’s streets and didn’t even so much as whimper. Needless to say, whatever problem I had with my mom was completely forgotten by the time she and I reached our destination.
Saint Patrick’s day, 2010. I was living in Dresden, Germany at the time, and my linguistics teacher Jörn, a German man who learned English in Ireland, had invited his students out to an Irish pub in Neustadt. I of course accepted, and within minutes of getting through the door of the pub, was challenged by Jörn to a Guinness drink-off, which I had the misfortune of winning. Some 12+ pints later, during which I can only vaguely recall meeting an avid NASCAR fan, I spilled out into the streets as only one can after having consumed so much beer. With the help of some friends, I meandered to the closest tram stop. Unfortunately, it was around 3:30a.m., and the trams that do run all night only come twice an hour during this time. After only a few minutes of sitting, everything started spinning, and I can assume you know what happened next. After what seemed like an eternity, a tram arrived. The only sober one among us unfortunately knew very little German and was directionally challenged, but she assured us that she would get us back to our apartments. What she didn’t know is that some trams run for a bit and then go back to the station, and that this was one of those trams. So when the tram got to Hauptbahnhof Nord and then turned right, she fretted, but did not know to hit the stop button to get us off at the next stop, which wasn’t that much farther. Mercifully, someone was getting off at the World Trade Center stop, which is when she gathered us drunkards up and told us the bad news. Defeated, we wobbled back towards the main train station, some 10 or so minutes by foot. By this time, the birds were beginning their morning song, much to the ire of my friend Brian, a fellow drunkard. With my head pounding, my feet burning, and my stomach churning, we finally arrived at Hauptbahnhof. We looked south towards the area our apartments were, and remembered that it was all uphill. Again feeling defeated, we looked back towards the front of the train station, which was an oasis of taxis. Hiring a taxi to drive us to our apartments was the best decision we made that night, and slipping into the back seat of that E Klasse further cemented that sentiment. It was the most memorable taxi ride of my life.
January 1992 I think, where I went to college there was a taxi server that would take students anywhere, anytime, for $1. The town was pretty small and not many people ever had to use it. But I went downtown to buy a computer, and realized I didn’t want to carry it all the way home. Called a cab, and they came in a Checker. I’d never been in one before and couldn’t believe how spacious it was in the back.
I think I want one, just for that reason alone.
The most memorable ride was late at night. Two of us drivers on duty, one dispatcher. We get a call to one of our regulars. An odd time for him, but, one of our regulars. I’m up, so I go.
Now this regular was very reliable. He’d be waiting when we got to his place, he’d sit up front with us, and he’d tip well. I get to 202 Duke East. And Regular isn’t there. Wait a couple of minutes. No regular. I tootle the horn melodiously … no regular. On the radio “It’s a no trip…. wait… there he i… she is …” and out walks Regular. Wearing a lovely, light green, form fitting, evening gown.
Regular gets in the back seat and asks to be taken to Oak Street. I call it in “18, Oak Street East” and off we roll. He doesn’t talk much, he just says he’s very drunk. Ok….
We get to Oak Street, he pays me, and then tells me to wait. Ok, meter goes back on. Tick tick tick.
A few minutes later, he gets back in the car and tells me to take him home. “18, we have a return on this” on the radio, back we go, and he pays me for everything that’s on the meter. Basically twice for the out trip, and once for the back.
I get back to the stand and tell the story to the dispatcher and the other driver. The other driver tells me that of course, with the tip, I’m buying coffee. Fair enough, I go to Timmies.
After chatting up the girl at Timmies, I get back in the car and hear the other driver, sounding very stunned “There’ll be a return on this”.
The other driver isn’t there when I get back to the stand, but gets there a few minutes later. “YOU WEREN’T KIDDING!!!” Same regular, same deal, but to a different address.
My regular car at the time was a ’73 Dodge Polara.
Regular never called us again after that.
Mine was kind of the opposite of yours, Jason. Back when I had an active private pilot’s license (maybe 1988 or 89), I decided one day that I could log some needed hours by flying to Terre Haute, Indiana (a 90 minute drive from my office) in order to file something that was due that day in Federal Court there. I had plenty of time, like an hour before the court closed when I called the cab from the TH airport.
Then I waited. And waited. A cab finally showed up. It was a beaten to hell late 70s Impala sedan. There was another fare, who graciously told the driver he could get me to Federal Court first, and I think I picked up his fare. I always wanted to tell a cabbie to “step on it”, but that Impala had the most horrifying engine knock I had ever heard. The driver let me know that he had babied it along that way for quite some time, but that he dared not thrash it. So we sllloooowwwwwlllyyyy drove from the airport to the courthouse, where I made it with something like 5 minutes to spare. That cab then got me back to the airport and I flew back home.
I have often wondered how long the poor engine in that cab lived after I got out and paid the driver.
In my neck of the woods we still see 1990’s Park Aves, A-body Ciera’s and Century’s, plenty of Panthers, the occasional LT1 B-body and the subject of my scare ride in an early 00’s Honda Accord several years ago. It creaked and groaned like the well worn car it was. What took the cake was when the front end jumped and vibrated and made a horrible noise, as we were trying to turn left, and suddenly we were stationary. Right in the middle of a busy intersection in town. The front left tire was sitting crooked in it’s fender well meaning a tie rod probably let go. As luck would have it the driver radioed in this malady and another car was sent to rescue us within 10 min so it wasn’t a long wait thankfully. The rescue car was a 1996 red Ciera with a partially flat front tire but thankfully that got us to where we needed to go. Some of the cars this place uses are very questionable indeed.