Watch BMW Give Teens the Keys to a 300-hp Classroom

Photos and video: Chris Worden

The theory that America’s 80 million Millennials hate cars may or may not be true, but it remains for the auto industry a sort of canard in a coal mine: a warning song too familiar not to be heeded. One of the suggested sources of our youths’ alleged automotive disdain is a fear of dying, a worry that has been drilled into their heads, in part, via the propagation of true statistics, like those showing that motor vehicle crashes are the number one killer of teens in the United States.

BMW, like all auto manufacturers, is well aware of its problems with American adolescents. That is in part why it created its Teen Driving School across the street from its factory in Greenville, S.C. The program is founded in altruistic principles: a mission to provide young people with quality driver training that is safe, fun, exciting, and educational, and helps them become less likely to die behind the wheel.

But there is no doubt that deeper marketing principles are at work. If a company lures in teens, transcends their fears, empowers them with abilities, and endows them with an aura of impregnability, in addition to creating better drivers (and pleasing parents), it might just create a lifelong customer.

If our recent experiences at the school are any indication, BMW may have cracked this bag of mixed nuts.

Due to a rather bizarre confluence of timing and birth control failure, we have five nieces between the ages of fifteen and seventeen. We’d originally intended to invite all of them down to the Palmetto State for this dynamic educational experience, but the three eldest suddenly acquired weekend jobs—no small feat for this nearly unemployable generation—so we ended up with just two: first cousins Whitley and Finley. Darling, whip-smart, and extremely close, these girls each maintained a 3.9 grade point average, but had about as much practical driving experience as Toonces the Cat.

“I had a one-week course,” Finley said. “We were on the road for ten hours.”

“I’ve driven in parking lots and on neighborhood streets five times,” Whitley stated proudly, adding that she’d also, “sort of watched a boy play Mario Kart.”

Like most members of their cohort, both girls had received their driver’s permits well after the appointed birthday, and like all Millennials, they both maintained excuses that absolved them of culpability. “My mom wouldn’t take me to the motor vehicles office for months, even though she works in the court,” Finley explained, rolling her eyes. “My little sister always sits in the front seat,” Whitley said. “That’s why I failed my permit test the first time. I didn’t have enough experience watching my mom drive.”

Given their neophytism, we were interested to hear about their automotive fears. During a lobby bar interview prior to the program’s official kickoff dinner, they listed them out readily: Intersections. Rush hour. Driving in the rain. Driving in the dark. Driving on the highway. Speeding tickets. Slowing down. Speeding up. Maintaining a constant speed. U-turns. Parking. Old people. Hydroplaning. Sudden stops. Yelling moms.

“Teenage drivers,” Finley said, finally.

“Aren’t you two teenage drivers?” we asked.

The girl spit a cherry stem into her Shirley Temple. “I would be scared of us.”

As if in preparation for—or mockery of—what was to occur the following morning, the kickoff dinner took place at a go cart track. A plethora of posted signs advised that patrons must be over sixteen years of age, 54 inches in stature, and in possession of a valid drivers license. Fortunately, South Carolina is a right to work state with gutted regulatory agencies, so none of the employees, and few of the patrons seemed to meet those requirements, and no one cared.

Add this to the girls’ list of automotive concerns: driving these underpowered, metal-bumpered lawn mowers. “I’m really nervous,” Finley said as we waited in line, suffused in the sweet scent of improperly burned fuel. Or, not. “I will kill her first,” Whitley said, pointing to a girl at the front of the queue. We reminded them that this was not The Hunger Games. But our theory was quickly undermined when Whit was rear ended and slammed into the guardrail on the first lap, and had to be rescued by one of the underage pit workers. As we exited the track, an acne-riddled boy with a blond trash-stache pulled a fake gold chain from inside his t-shirt, brought a crucifix to his lips, and kissed it.