In Wolf Motorsports Development, September 24, 2005
When in the course of martial events it becomes necessary for one family to dissolve the automotive bands which have connected them to the garage and to assume among the powers of the bank account, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of the third car entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the purchase.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that not all cars are created equal, that we are endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of 35 mpg in the city.
...
We bought a 1989 Honda Civic sedan last night. Blue gray. Only 96k on the odometer. A fine specimin of Japanese automotive engineering. It's like we're replacing the beloved Civic I drove from the time I was a teenager until the begining of our marriage.
The body panels are dinged up, the vinyl's peeling away from the front bumper, and the paint on the boot lid's doing that bleached-out thing. The interior is immaculate. He's all-around perfect as a beater car to take some burden off the two Miatas.
There are a few adjustments.
"What do you do," Adam asks while we're taking it out for the maiden voyage. "When a guy in an H2 pulls up next to you at the stop light and sneers at you for driving a beater?"
I don't even have to consider it. "You roll down your window and shout 'forty-two miles to the gallon, bee-yotch!"
"Ah," he says. "You are truly wise in the way of the Civic."
"But you're not going to get the asshole in the H2 taunting you about the crappy car," I tell him. "Because that's the beauty of a 15-year-old Honda. They fly totally under the radar. The guy in the H2 will never even know you're there."
"Nuh-uh," he says, but then he notices that we're not getting looks from other drivers, that little kids in minivans aren't frantically waving from their booster seats, that the Honda isn't generating a stir like either Miata.
"Oh, this is great," Adam says. "Nobody's trying to race me, nobody's trying to cut me off. It's like we're invisible."
"I know," I say and I'm grinning like an idiot. "We're invisible."
"I could get used to this," he says.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that not all cars are created equal, that we are endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of 35 mpg in the city.
...
We bought a 1989 Honda Civic sedan last night. Blue gray. Only 96k on the odometer. A fine specimin of Japanese automotive engineering. It's like we're replacing the beloved Civic I drove from the time I was a teenager until the begining of our marriage.
The body panels are dinged up, the vinyl's peeling away from the front bumper, and the paint on the boot lid's doing that bleached-out thing. The interior is immaculate. He's all-around perfect as a beater car to take some burden off the two Miatas.
There are a few adjustments.
"What do you do," Adam asks while we're taking it out for the maiden voyage. "When a guy in an H2 pulls up next to you at the stop light and sneers at you for driving a beater?"
I don't even have to consider it. "You roll down your window and shout 'forty-two miles to the gallon, bee-yotch!"
"Ah," he says. "You are truly wise in the way of the Civic."
"But you're not going to get the asshole in the H2 taunting you about the crappy car," I tell him. "Because that's the beauty of a 15-year-old Honda. They fly totally under the radar. The guy in the H2 will never even know you're there."
"Nuh-uh," he says, but then he notices that we're not getting looks from other drivers, that little kids in minivans aren't frantically waving from their booster seats, that the Honda isn't generating a stir like either Miata.
"Oh, this is great," Adam says. "Nobody's trying to race me, nobody's trying to cut me off. It's like we're invisible."
"I know," I say and I'm grinning like an idiot. "We're invisible."
"I could get used to this," he says.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home