I finally get around to reading various bits of car mail, and find that
in his usual wonderful style, the ever loquacious Scott Fisher sez:
So what about you folks? What do you see in your own lives,
as 1995's opening measures sound, where you are at risk of selling
out on transcendent beauty for a few minutes of being comfortably
numb?
Well, I myself sold out, but it was for *days* of comfort, not merely minutes.
You see, my goals for the coming year include attending the VTR convention
in Illinois at the end of July, and the SCCA Solo II Nationals at the start
of September, in Topeka, Kansas. No big deal, except I plan to have the Killer
Spitfire with me at both events.
Now, the occasional jaunt about town in a high strung, tautly sprung autocross
machine is something I can not only live with, but make an effort to seek out.
That same small vehicle moving myself, a pile of spares, tools and race tires
halfway across the country is not something I look forward to with eagerness.
For the VTR meet in Seattle I had a solid, mostly reliable, but certainly not
that comfortable '66 Chevy pickup. Well, here's what I had to say about things
a while back, when Salt Lake was having its own brand of weather woes. Did I
really sell out, or just change banks?
mjb.
----
Date: Wed, 14 Dec 1994 01:22:06 -0700
From: Mark J Bradakis <mjb@autox.team.net>
To: some mailing list
Subject: The perfect drive
I imagine that those of us on this list have had that perfect day. The one
where the car is in fine tune, the weather is just the sort one would order,
and the roads seemed a perfect match for the roadster under one's control.
The kind of day with the wind in the face that makes you forget all about that
storm in January when you had to replace the gearbox in the driveway, that one
VISA bill from TRF, that dark night you had no warning the circuit was going
to just fail, the time, well, the time that the perfect sports car day erases
from your memory, replacing the frustration with pure enjoyment of the moment.
It is the middle of December, there is snow everywhere. The roads are covered
in slippery mush, it is cold and miserable, the canonical winter here in Salt
Lake. But I had something close to that experience of a perfect day, just in
an evening's drive.
As a few of you know, a week before Thanksgiving I lost the brakes on my '66
Chevy pickup, careened around a corner in my best imitation of a Spitfire on
the autocross course, and had a very hard collision with a LARGE power pole.
The old green truck was totaled, I sold it to the tow truck driver. A week or
so ago, I bought a replacement for it, a 1980 Chevrolet Suburban, the top of
the line Silverado model. Well, back when it was new it might have cost a
year's pay, but I got it for a bit less. It has power this, power that, A/C,
4 wheel drive and a thirst reminiscient of a wino with a fresh jug of Tokay.
Yes, it has things that don't work, like the air conditioning, noises I have
yet to decipher, a leaky exhaust, a broken rear spring and a chintzy trailer
hitch too bent to use, as Pugs and I found out when we tried to attach a
trailer this past weekend. That will be fixed before the Solo season starts
up in March. But one thing in favor of the beast, it does have the original
factory 8 track player!
The idea was that the replacement for the '66 should be something that would
get me, Killer, and a passle of parts to VTR and the SCCA nationals this next
summer, with some degree of comfort, reliability and convenience that just
wasn't there with the old truck. Something I could even use to drive Karen to
work if needed, and not have her embarassed to be seen dismounting. But the
sheer size of the thing and the less than frugal mileage have had me wondering
if I did the right thing. The same sort of thoughts I have when I have yet
another decrepit Triumph to drag home, working on the proper approach of
breaking the news to Karen.
In driving it home from work tonight, I was struck by the thought that in the
conditions present the Suburban, confidently going forth in 4 wheel drive,
no fuss, no bother, was in its element. Casually cruising past the minivans
randomly heading down, or up, or across the road, staying away from curbs and
ditches some domestic sedans seemed to aim for, going exactly where I pointed
the thing, it was much like that top down sports car on that twisty stretch of
backroad. It was the perfect vehicle for the time, exactly what was needed.
mjb.
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