Had a great time this weekend at the show put on by the Richmond
Triumph Register. Boogied the 200 miles over Saturday morning in
hopes I would miss most of the day's crushing heat, but I still
picked up a nasty burn on my neck. I just wish I'd have picked up
some cash before splitting town. Going through the backwater
burgs, I must have passed forty yard sales where I would have
loved to scavenge for old Atari games. Still, staying away from
the interstates (which are always packed to bursting with idiots)
made for a nice reeelaxing drive.
My brother shanghaied me into laying out the field that afternoon
and going on the beer run. Fuqing starter went billy on me at the
store, and no amount of coaxing of any sort could breathe life
into the mechanism. It hasn't done that since . . . hmm, not
since last summer. Could my starter be having an adverse reaction
to the heat? Ah well. I got some guy to give me a push. Then
his buddy came out of the store, saw the MG, and asked if I knew
anybody wanting to sell a Metropolitan. I told him to come to the
show to check things out, but wouldn't you know there wasn't a
single Met to be seen the next day. Ya know, there were quite a
few makes & models that were tragically underrepresented. One
Morgan, one MGA, one Lotus (1995), no TVR's, no Sunbeams (toasters
or otherwise), no AC's . . . guess I'll have to wait for the
Berkeley show at the end of the season for them. No way I'm going
to the Bowie show again. I hate that one.
The show itself was wonderful. I got duped into helping out the
club again for a brief period, this time directing the spectators
to the parking area. Kinda difficult when the show's at a private
school where church services were being held on Sunday. Had to
snag an occasional driver following the church crowd and steer
them back onto the right path. Everybody was squawking about the
heat, and not without justification. It was damn hot. I couldn't
shake the suspicion those folks in the church were actively
wishing misery upon us heathens. ;) There was some relief in the
shade of trees at the fringes of the field; too bad there was
poison ivy lurking in the same shade. I was perpetually applying
sunscreen to myself. Maybe next time I'll put on a coat of latex
paint beforehand.
In the participants' ballot, I made a deliberate effort to cast
for the cars that were daily drivers, which would sometimes turn
out to be real beaters. My vote in the Spitfire class was a
dented-up bucket whose owner trundled out onto the field after
accidentally registering as a participant, believing the fee was
for a regular spectator admission. I loved it! As beautiful as
most of the cars were (I'm always amazed that there are as many
stunning examples as there are), and as much respect as I have for
the owners' restoration efforts, I had to favor the ones people
used as primary transportation. I got nothing against the trailer
queens and garage barons; I just feel a special sort of kinship
with the folks who really drive their cars. MGB's were split into
three classes according to their noses. Never seen that done
before.
Bought a spiffy t-shirt with an exploded view of an SU carb (much
more interesting than the usual selection of marque logo shirts)
and a new fan switch. Won an MG hat door prize, and my brother gave me a
meet t-shirt for helping out, but no award for my car.
That didn't matter to me. I got met some old faces and *tons* of
new ones (hi, John!), and there was nary a cross word spoken
between anybody. And that, my friends, is what makes the meets
worthwhile to me.
Caught a flat on the trip back (damn!), and the starter balked
again at the gas station where I pumped up the spare (double
damn!), but I got another push from two kindly folks. One of them
had only stopped to compliment me on the car, and next thing you
know he's pushing it.
Oh me, oh my. Here it is May 21st, which officially makes me 27.
And I pay six bucks for a haircut.
--
Jay Tilton | jtilton@vt.edu
|