Larry J. Dickstein writes:
> Actually, it's kind of
> peaceful under there until a big glob of oil hits you squarely in the
> eye.
Baptism. That's what they call it, anyway.
When the usual bullshit gets you down, a little time under your MG is
indeed therapeutic. Lying there on the cold concrete floor, looking up
at all of the little bits that so selflessly propel you through your
hectic life, bits that you seldom get to know because of their
inaccessibility, you come to understand that MG is more than a shiny
paint job; more, even, than two SU carbs and a leaky hood. MG is
uniquely and wonderfully MG, in a holistic sense that no lesser car can
duplicate. "The whole is more than the sum of its parts" they say, but
seldom can you lie so closely to such a perfect manifestation of the old
truism; with your back in the oil spot and your spanners spilled near
your hand, the car crouched motionless on top of you in a benevolent
patience, you come to understand the essence of the Abingdon magic.
The minutes lose their relevance as you let the magic soak in, savoring
the wide-eyed wonder at the mosaic of machinery above you, assembled so
far away so long ago but expressly with you, the driver, in mind.
Then you lift a spanner and humbly offer your sacrifice on the octagonal
altar...
--
Todd "All hail the power of Kimber's name" Mullins
Todd.Mullins@nrlssc.navy.mil On the lovely Mississippi (USA) Coast
'74 MGB Tourer is my co-pilot
Atheist #685 "Whatever, baby."
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