Amici:
I can't contribute anything to the thread on speeding tickets; I always pay
the fine because I'm always guilty. However, the Mazda RX-7 story reminded
me of this short article I wrote for Moss Motoring and a couple of TR Club
newsletters:
I was on a solo nine day round-trip tour of the Skyline Drive and Blue Ridge
Parkway in my TR-3. These roads are actually part of the National Park
system. They wind along the scenic Blue Ridge mountain range for 575 miles
through Virginia and North Carolina. There are no towns, stop signs, red
lights, or trucks; wilderness, challenging curves, and scenic beauty abound.
The trip is perfect for a sports car.
Somewhere on the Parkway, as I drove merrily up a long hill with a graceful
curve miles from nowhere, a torrential downpour killed the engine. I didn't
want to stay in the road because the visibility was so bad, but there was no
place close by to pull off. The only thing for it was to coast backwards
down the hill (it seemed like a mile) until I could get off the road. Soon
the rain stopped. I knew that if I waited long enough, the heat from the
engine would evaporate the water from wherever it had done its dirty work
and I could go on my way. (Note to self: order all new ignition parts upon
return.) So I took a photograph and patiently waited.
Yes, my car was immobile in a wilderness miles from a telephone or
civilization for that matter, but I was not annoyed. There are worse things
that can happen to a person. Here I was, in a neat car, on a great tour in
beautiful scenery. I had no schedule to meet, so why get upset about an
unplanned stop?
After a while, a park ranger stopped his Blazer and beckoned to me to come
over. Now here might be a reason for concern. Maybe I had broken some rule
about pulling off the Parkway in an undesignated spot or something. I walked
up to the window and he spoke.
"Well," he said slowly, "I've got a Midget." When he spoke these five
words, I knew that he understood my plight, that I would not get in trouble,
and for that moment we shared that feeling that is hard to explain but one
that is known to owners of old British sports cars who have found themselves
broken down by the side of the road. There may be some mild irritation at
being inconvenienced, yet the edge is softened by a feeling of adventure.
When driving an old British sports car, breaking down is, after all, to be
tolerated, if not expected. Besides, these adventures are great material for
car club meeting story swapping, newsletter articles, etc. There is a bond
among fellow owners that comes from mutual shared experience.
After an offer of help, none required, the park ranger left me on my own
once again. The ignition dried out and I was soon on my way.
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