I'll admit right up front that I wouldn't have written about this years ago when our daughter and son were teenagers. It's about foolish things teenagers sometimes do with cars. Only the progression of age and the anointing of good luck at the time can grant reflection, which is tempered by wisdom.

What sparked this chain of thought was my experience about 18 months ago in taking delivery of a new 2015 ZO6 Corvette.

The key fob was handed to me at the National Corvette Museum, which enthusiasts know is only a mile or so from the place where all new Corvettes are born: the GM assembly plant in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Most also know that nearby, in another direction, is a terrific new Motorsports Park and its world class track, also owned by the museum.

An assembly line fresh ZO6 Corvette records its first miles on Kentucky's Motorsports Park track in Bowling Green. The track is owned by the National Corvette Museum, which can be seen in the far right distance. (Photo: Michael Brown)

When I got behind the wheel of the ZO6, the car had 3.1 miles on the odometer. Within the next couple of hours, it had an additional 45 miles on it — and it was all accrued on that new track at the Motorsports Park.

I don't take for granted that having a neck lanyard with "Media" on it comes with a few unique and fun privileges, and that was certainly one of them. It was mostly for a photo and video shoot, and since the Corvette wasn't properly broken in, I had to limit my desires and speed. But it was still a treat to have that amazing new car and track all to ourselves.

Most new Corvettes don't record their first odometer miles on a world-class track. The asphalt is a blur during a filmed sequence at the NCM Motorsports Park track. (Photo: Michael Brown)

Later, I shipped the ZO6 back to Texas (OK, purists, insert your well-deserved barbs for me here). While doing so, I thought how far removed the day had been from my first racing experiences in Oklahoma back in the 1960s.

Ah, high school. It marked the freedom that being 16 with a driver's license and car affords, along with the requisite stupidity.

We had Highway 93 on the east edge of town. It was a laser-straight ribbon of concrete that shot north to the horizon and zipped past tiny towns called Messer and Rattan. At some point, someone painted off quarter-mile start/finish stripes on 93, and late at night we made frequent use of them.

Calling it "racing" might be a stretch. My first cool car was a '55 Chevy two-door hardtop. It was the initial model of the small-block V8, and it was a 7-year-old used car when I got it. There were no snapped necks or bodies pressed into seats as the automatic transmission shifted gears. Time in the quarter? Probably 14 seconds or more. We were drag racing, but impressed no one that I recall.

A 16-year-old Michael Brown (right) and friend lean against Brown's '55 Chevy with a small block V8 in Hugo, Oklahoma, in the 1960s. (Photo: Michael Brown)

The dumbest thing I ever did on Highway 93 was get in a car with my friend, Butch. His parents had just bought a new '62 Chevy Impala. It was a "family car" four-door sedan with air conditioning and automatic transmission.

But the day his Dad brought it home, Butch floored it the first time he took it out. That 327 Chevy engine seemed to love every minute of it. If it had been damaged by this ill-timed treatment, it never showed.

A couple of weeks later, we took that new Impala to Highway 93. Butch pulled up to the start line, revved the engine in neutral then slammed it into gear and tromped the accelerator. Two black parallel stripes on the pavement chased us down the highway.

I don't know what the car was doing when we crossed the quarter-mile, but Butch aimed it north and never took his foot off the gas. I looked over at one point and the speedometer needle was bouncing well past 120 mph — the highest number it showed. There were no seat belts and no air bags, not that it would have mattered if even a squirrel had run out in front of us.

Somehow, our immature teenage brains thought that was an OK thing to do. The dumb stunt passed, and we survived. Fortunately, we hadn't endangered anyone else — at least that I know of.

Now you see why I wouldn't have wanted our own teenagers to know about this when they got their driver's licenses. Heck, they're adults with children, and I'm hoping they don't even read it now!

And if any teenagers are reading this, don't be stupid as I was. Save it for the track ...