My Dad Drove Like a Legend, So Naturally I Became Immune To Stress



Let’s start with the truth: I didn’t just stumble into this whole catastrophe adjuster lifestyle. No, no. I was bred for chaos, shaped in the back seat of a car doing 83 in a 65, somewhere between “We’re making good time” and “Dad, my legs are numb.”

My father, Alan, may have passed in 2021, but his driving habits live on like folklore—or trauma, depending on which sibling you ask. The man was a road warlock, a petrol prophet, a Dennys-dodging, Cigarette wielding highway tactician. Family road trips with him weren’t “vacations.” They were missions.

The Gas Station Ballet

You didn’t just stop for gas with my dad—you executed a synchronized pit stop worthy of NASCAR. He’d wedge the gas cap in the pump handle so it filled itself (don’t tell the fire marshal), sprint to the bathroom like a man with zero trust in his bladder, and emerge with a bag of chips, two Cokes, and enough cigarettes to get us through Maryland.

Back in the car before the pump even clicked, and we were off. Seat belts optional, climate control overridden by the ever-down window because he smoked—and smoking required “fresh air,” even if it was January and I was dressed like I was headed to the Arctic.


What it felt like leaving the gas station racing back to the I-95 ramp

The Human Radar Detector

Now, here’s where the man really shined. He didn’t use radar detectors or apps or Waze. No. He used other speeding maniacs as shields.

He’d spot someone doing 90 in a red Mustang, give them a half-mile lead, then lock in like a cruise missile. “There’s my front door,” he’d say, casually sipping his soda like we weren’t now part of a high-stakes game of Smokey and the Bandit. He would carefully watch that guys taillights  when he crested every hill, and  passed every forested emergency turn around spot.

He wasn’t wrong. That guy usually did get pulled over. My dad would pass the whole scene like it was a performance he had directed.

And So Here I Am

So when people ask me, “Why insurance adjusting?” or “Why are you so weird about loyalty programs?” or “Why do you drive like you're being timed?” — the answer is simple:

Because Alan was my father.

He didn’t believe in stopping unless something was literally on fire, and even then he’d ask, “Is it still drivable?”

He made me appreciate efficiency, momentum, and the sacred art of  being a traffic scofflaw but somehow avoiding punishment..

So yes, now I study insurance terms by night, obsess over carry-on luggage by day, and mentally prepare to live in hotel rooms for weeks at a time. And I do it all with my dad’s voice echoing somewhere in the back of my mind saying, “C’mon. We can make it two more states before we stop.”

Thanks, Dad. I still drive like you—and I understand why you did.

And Pops, When the entire family is in the car and we spend 48 minutes at a truck stop walking dogs and eating ice cream, that the family is tougher then any highway patrolman... Forgive me

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