I had a '69 Road Runner when I was a kid. I had it for 13 days

In the warm, reflective words of William Fichtner, actor and storyteller of quiet depth, there is a memory that glows with the lessons of youth: “I had a ’69 Road Runner when I was a kid. I had it for 13 days, came home one day, and my parents were in the driveway. They said, ‘Meet the new owner,’ because they’d gotten phone calls about me burning rubber for the last 12 days. They thought I’d wrap it around a tree, and it was too much car for a 16-year-old.” Though the story seems lighthearted—a tale of a boy, a car, and a lesson learned—it carries within it the eternal wisdom of growing up, the balance between freedom and restraint, power and humility, desire and discipline.

The ’69 Road Runner, a symbol of American speed and raw mechanical might, represents more than a vehicle. It is the embodiment of youthful temptation, the call of power that outpaces wisdom. Every generation knows this hunger: the thirst to test limits, to feel the thrill of motion and control, to claim mastery over forces greater than oneself. But Fichtner’s story, spoken with the tenderness of hindsight, reveals what the young so rarely see—that power without maturity can be dangerous, and freedom without understanding can destroy the very joy it promises. His parents, standing in the driveway, were not tyrants, but guardians of his life, saving him from the tragic folly of unchecked youth.

William Fichtner, who would go on to portray men of complexity and introspection, speaks here from memory not to boast, but to remember what it means to be young and untempered. In his words, there is both affection and humility—a recognition that sometimes our greatest teachers are not words, but the experiences we survive, and the wisdom others impose upon us when we lack it. The Road Runner, with its thunderous engine and restless spirit, mirrors the young soul itself—beautiful, eager, and dangerously alive. It takes time, and sometimes loss, for that energy to become strength rather than recklessness.

This tale recalls the ancient truth known to every elder and sage: that youth is the flame, but age is the lantern. Without guidance, fire burns; with wisdom, it warms and illuminates. In every age, from the warriors of Sparta to the scholars of the Renaissance, the young have tested the boundaries of power too soon. The Greeks told of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun on wings of wax, his heart swollen with exhilaration, only to fall to his death when the wax melted. Like Fichtner’s roaring Road Runner, Icarus’s wings were symbols of possibility—wondrous, but perilous when used without humility. The lesson is the same across millennia: to master great power, one must first master oneself.

Yet, the story also carries tenderness and humor, for in it we glimpse not condemnation, but forgiveness. The young Fichtner was not ruined by his mistake; he was shaped by it. His parents, wise in their fear, took away the car—but gave him something greater in return: the understanding that love sometimes takes the form of limits. They trusted not the boy’s judgment, but the man he would one day become. This is the compassion of true guardianship: to act not out of anger, but out of care, to see in a reckless child the promise of a wiser adult.

In this sense, Fichtner’s tale is both personal and universal. It is the story of every person who has looked back upon their youth and smiled at their own audacity, tempered by gratitude for those who stood watch over them. It reminds us that wisdom is often born not from triumph, but from the moments when something is taken from us for our own good. The car was gone—but the lesson endured, and that lesson became a part of the man who would later understand patience, restraint, and reflection.

So, my children of the open road, remember this teaching: freedom is not the absence of limits, but the understanding of them. When life hands you a “Road Runner”—a gift of power, passion, or opportunity—take it not as a toy, but as a responsibility. Know the road you travel, and respect the strength of what you hold. Do not curse those who take the wheel from your hands when you are not ready, for their caution may save your life. Power will come again when you are wise enough to wield it. And when it does, drive not to escape life, but to savor it—to go far, yes, but always to come home.

For as William Fichtner’s tale reminds us, it is better to lose the car than to lose oneself. Better to slow the fire than to burn too soon. For the speed of youth is fleeting—but the wisdom of restraint endures forever.