As of this writing I have four grand-kids, the two oldest being in double digits. Them being brother and sister to each other really doesn't make a difference - it would be
the same if they were brothers or sisters to each other - because they
would still have the uncanny knack of annoying the living daylights out
of each other. That's just the way things are, and always have been, for
countless generations. Siblings under the age of eighteen will simply
get on each others nerves, intentionally as well as unintentionally. These two grand-kids are both old enough now that when they get ready to get into the car
to call out either
"shotgun" or
"front seat". They're also old enough to squabble about it.
This happened to me the other week, when I picked them up from their house and the passenger front seat was available for the taking. Decisions about who gets to ride “shotgun” on any car trip of any length are not as
clear as they used to be. I've come to realize that there are a myriad of factors that determine who gets to ride in
the front passenger seat. Everyone comes from a different place along
with a different set of standards in how the seat is selected. And just calling out “shotgun” doesn't cut it anymore. For some reason, kids who sometimes forget to do their homework when it was assigned
that day, have the incredible ability of remembering who rode shotgun last in my car even though it happened about 5 weeks ago. Since I'm an old fart and can't remember shit, I usually solve the problem with a coin toss. If I don't have a coin, some form of bribery is in order for whomever gets the back seat. That backfires on occasion as now I have two kids either fighting for the backseat or they both sit there.
For most of my life, at least since my teen years, it was always pretty clear how the shotgun position was determined. It was usually given to the person who called it first. If two or more people called it at the exact same time, it usually came down to who was the biggest in size, or perhaps physical
condition.The only trump card was on the extremely rare occasion if there was someone riding along who got motion sickness - they automatically got the front seat. The reason why this was extremely rare was that it was totally uncool inviting someone who could blow chunks all over the interior.
In my older years (now that I'm over 50), shotgun usually takes two forms; age and respect. The older you get, the more comfortable people think you'll be sitting up front. That rarely happens to me, even though I'm older than my wife. Somehow she always gets the passenger front seat - and she doesn't even say
"Shotgun!" It's the respect angle that usually lands me in the shotgun seat, especially when it comes to hot rods, muscle cars, and/or drag cars. I can remember riding shotgun in my buddy's custom 1929 Ford rat rod convertible / roadster. There was no top to speak of and even though it was a glorious Spring day, it was both brutally chilly and wildly exhilarating... especially at over 90mph.
Two other shotgun rides, to this day, are embedded into my gray matter forever. The first, was in a 1966 Dodge Coronet that had a transplanted 440 Magnum engine that had north of 550 horsepower. While this scenario may seem like yawn city to some, what made it cool as hell was the fact we drove it through the crowded streets of Worcester Massachusetts some 20+ years ago with occasional blasts at over 85mph. The other adrenaline rush was the 100% vinyl seats. When making a robust unplanned stop, the upgraded front disc brakes did a marvelous job slamming us to a halt. However, the pathetic factory lap seat belts did nothing from pivoting us forward and almost cracking our heads open on the hard plastic dash. They also didn't do a very good job from keeping our butts from sliding around.
The second ride was much shorter as well as safer, but still wild as hell. A good friend of mine had a 1968 Dodge Dart that he made into a killer bracket drag car. Were talking full-bore 540+ cubic inches of big block Mopar capable of blasting the 2700 pound car down the quarter tarmac to the tune of the mid-8's. Before this ride, I had gone fast before - around mid-10's, but never that deep into the eights. While two seconds doesn't sound all that fast, it becomes brutal when it's accomplished in 1320 feet. The most vivid things I remember were the sounds and the scenery. First, the big block; it sounded absolutely savage - even through a full race helmet. My friend and I had to literally yell at each other at the top of our lungs in order to be heard. No high-end headsets here. The other two aspects were when the Torqueflite transmission literally slammed into gear - twice - as well as seeing mostly sky until about half track when the car returned to Earth with a slight thud. I think my ear-to-ear smile was planted on my face for about two days straight.
Riding shotgun - not as easy to claim as it used to be, but in some cases, damn worth it.
Until next time, peace out.
Dave
As of this writing I have four grand-kids, the two oldest being in double digits. Them being brother and sister to each other really doesn't make a difference - it would be
the same if they were brothers or sisters to each other - because they
would still have the uncanny knack of annoying the living daylights out
of each other. That's just the way things are, and always have been, for
countless generations. Siblings under the age of eighteen will simply
get on each others nerves, intentionally as well as unintentionally. These two grand-kids are both old enough now that when they get ready to get into the car
to call out either "shotgun" or "front seat". They're also old enough to squabble about it. 
For most of my life, at least since my teen years, it was always pretty clear how the shotgun position was determined. It was usually given to the person who called it first. If two or more people called it at the exact same time, it usually came down to who was the biggest in size, or perhaps physical
condition.The only trump card was on the extremely rare occasion if there was someone riding along who got motion sickness - they automatically got the front seat. The reason why this was extremely rare was that it was totally uncool inviting someone who could blow chunks all over the interior.
Two other shotgun rides, to this day, are embedded into my gray matter forever. The first, was in a 1966 Dodge Coronet that had a transplanted 440 Magnum engine that had north of 550 horsepower. While this scenario may seem like yawn city to some, what made it cool as hell was the fact we drove it through the crowded streets of Worcester Massachusetts some 20+ years ago with occasional blasts at over 85mph. The other adrenaline rush was the 100% vinyl seats. When making a robust unplanned stop, the upgraded front disc brakes did a marvelous job slamming us to a halt. However, the pathetic factory lap seat belts did nothing from pivoting us forward and almost cracking our heads open on the hard plastic dash. They also didn't do a very good job from keeping our butts from sliding around.
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