I took my son with me on a short trip today. He's 21 years old, and what is euphemistically called a "student-athlete" here in the U.S. On reaching our small road on the return trip, I asked if he felt he might be ready for his initiation into The Society of the Clutch [insert the heavenly choir soundtrack here]. We swapped seats by the mailboxes at the entrance to the small road, and thus began his first lesson in The Defeat of the Millenial Anti-Theft Device.

My garage now smells of burnt clutch, and I got a nasty email from the differential. The lad has much to learn. So bloody much.