Daddy was an avid car enthusiast. When he was about my age, he’d join the rallyes of his time as a co-driver, racing in souped-up VW Beetles. It was only when he’d experienced a crash that my Mom convinced him to give up such a thrilling, but dangerous, sport. It was Daddy who first got me interested in cars even as a child. Other kids got toy robots and GI Joes for their birthdays and Christmas; I got little sports cars and trucks from Matchbox and Hot Wheels. When I’d outgrown them and wanted to give my collection away, my mother quietly scolded me out of earshot from my dad; he’d made a point to buy me a toy car every payday of his life as a copy writer just starting to make his way up the corporate ladder. So I have those cars to this day.
Even before I’d gotten my driver’s license, I was already learning the basics of car maintenance; washing his car every week, prepping the radiator and starting the engine every morning before he’d go to work, reading his Car & Driver magazines from cover to cover. He was as patient teaching me how to drive a manual transmission car as he was coaching me in my math. When I could finally put it in gear without stalling, he must have known everything else would follow when it came to the art of driving smoothly. Many years later, he found it strange that his first-ever company car — a Lancer GLXi he let me and my brother use to go to college — would have a blown clutch and front suspension after less than 15,000 kilometers. Although he suspected it must have been from my practicing of the double-clutch technique and setting a new personal record in getting to school in the shortest time possible every day, he just kept quiet and prayed I wouldn’t get myself or someone else killed on the road. His prudence and caution would rub off on me over time, but he still enjoyed a fast ride whenever safely possible.
When I’d gotten into Automotion magazine — one of the very few local car magazines of the late 90’s, and one in which I’d gotten in through his referral to its then editor Erle Sebastian — he was surprised to see a Civic SiR parked outside our house one day, one of the few cars he would really like out of the dozens I would bring home for a weekend test drive over the next few years. Racing a rally-spec Isuzu Hi-Lander for the Petron Rallycross series, I brought him along for one ride, extending the four-wheel drifts to scare him a little and giving him a running commentary of the slippery course until we overshot a turn and slid into the gutter. We were laughing all the way to the finish line. For several more races in that series and the highly successful Honda Media Challenge for the City and Civic, he’d take the time to drive — alone, even — to venues such as Clark Air Field and Santa Rosa to watch me race. Perhaps to reassure himself that the blown clutch and suspension of his car was worth the investment?
He was also my most subtle critic. He’d read every article I wrote, mentally taking down notes and casually giving suggestions on how I could do better next time in communicating my thoughts to you, the reader, while at the same time hinting how I could inject the humor and real-world relevance he could see in foreign car columns and reviews such as could be found in Car & Driver and The New York Times.
Although he would have liked to finally buy a real sports sedan to indulge himself, prudence often ruled his heart, telling him to save for the rainy days and just vicariously enjoy cars through magazines, newspapers, and TV shows. Any time I brought home an interesting car for a weekend, he would have his customary drive-around-the-neighborhood where he would pronounce afterwards whether it was worth the investment or not. We could talk endlessly about cars over dinner and during drives, while my mother would tune out and think of something that hadn’t already been discussed a dozen times. We had one long road trip together, a 13-hour odyssey to Pagudpud in a Subaru Forester on my 25th birthday. We started out as friends, but by the 6th hour on the road (it was Maundy Thursday), we were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. Although we did end up having fun at the beach, it would be the same case driving home. Maybe that’s why I would be weary of going on another long road trip with him again.
Last year, when I had shifted my love of racing to endurance events like bike races and triathlons, he went with me to Batangas where he was proud to see me win in my age-group. Again, another odyssey going home, but we managed to stay cool nonetheless, enjoying each other’s company despite the traffic and fatigue. The next day, we both woke up early because he had to drive me to the airport for a trip to Tokyo. Although he was still visibly tired from the long drive, he didn’t complain and cheerfully wished me a safe trip. He was like that for almost every trip I had to take, making sure I had my passport and everything else I needed in my luggage, calming me down because he knew that, in my excitement, I tended to forget things every time I had to leave the house.
So when he needed to go to the hospital because his blood pressure had gone alarmingly low, I was more than ready to cancel every appointment and devote the whole day to driving for him. Ever the backseat driver, he couldn’t help but tell me which streets to take in getting to the hospital, and I gently told him I knew how to get there already. How was I to know it would be my last chance to return the favor to him? That it would be our last chance to talk about cars, about work, about all sorts of things while in a car, that an activity you take for granted when everything’s going well would never happen again?
We checked him into the ER of Asian Hospital on a Sunday. Everything would change from then on, but he did a good job of pretending everything was normal with him. In his last week with us, he never complained of the pain or the fatigue of activities as simple as getting up on his bed.
He’d give me things to do to keep me occupied that week, even telling me to cheer up when he saw the look on my face after the doctor had told him he needed at least a triple bypass to make it. On his last night with us, he had visitors from the ad agency where he used to work on the Mitsubishi account, so I and my brother left him to get some rest, driving home in the Space Wagon he’d bought in 1997 as a Christmas gift to my mother.
The call would come at 6 in the morning the next day, Mom telling me to go the hospital. Trying to drive calmly in traffic, telling yourself it’s nothing serious, and then feeling your world getting darker and darker with every step closer to the door of his room; how could anyone know it would be the worst day of your life?
You peek through the small window of the door and see your mother and brother at his bedside, seeing Daddy’s face as if he were just sleeping, and then you know. You know that your father, the only man you ever really looked up to, the one person who taught you all that he could about cars, about being a good person, about being a man just like him, about rolling with the punches and getting up every time and striving to do better the next time, won’t ever wake up again. And then you step inside, let the tears fall, and have one last, loving conversation with the best father you could ever pray to God for. — Jose M. Leuterio Jr. will be laid to rest today at Manila Memorial, Sucat, Parañaque City.
When I showed Lester Dizon the reactions of our texters to the BF brouhaha, I didn’t know he was going to put in his 2,000 words woth on the matter the next time he was given the wheel in the Backseat Driver column. So, I gave him the editorial prerogative to stir up the hornet’s nest. Here’s what you had to say about last week’s controversial column. — Ed
Motoring journalists should be the epitome of safe driving. Whenever you test drive your vehicles, follow traffic rules and observe the speed limit. — 09175273721 (Mga kapatid sa kabuhayan, pakinggan ang ating mga mambabasa.)
And so the arguments rage on. This week, we enjoin Sun Cellular subscribers to join the fray. To become a "Backseat Driver", text PHILSTAR<space>FB<space>MOTORING <space>YOUR MESSAGE and send to 2333 if you’re a Globe or Touch Mobile subscriber or 334 if you’re a Smart or Talk ’n Text subscriber or 2840 if you are a Sun Cellular subscriber.
The Philippine STAR joins its motoring writer Andy Leuterio and the rest of the Leuterio family in their moment of grief over the loss of their dear father Jose, Jr. We ask for readers of this column to include the elder Leuterio in their prayers. — Ed