I challenge you, dear reader. I challenge you to look deep down inside yourself, to search your feelings, find what’s real, and answer me one thing…
For some of us Friday means payday. Payday might mean going out tonight, it might mean paying the bills, or it might mean browsing the internet for your next project.
That said, you’d think every day was payday with how often I do the last one.
Let’s see what we’ve found this week!
Car season is nearly upon us! The days are getting longer, the nights are getting warmer, and it seems the roads that have survived this winter’s deluge are clean enough to explore again.
When you’re the car guy at work, coworkers often feel free to share their enthusiasm with you. Like that dude Jeremey who sits four cubicles down. One day you’ll be at the water cooler at the same time and he’ll give you the ‘sup homie’ nod.
Being constantly connected to the internet, whether through my phone, my desktop, my laptop, or my Gameboy SP (takes a while to connect…) is as dangerous to my wallet as leaving your unlocked phone around friends is dangerous to your Tinder profile.
Here comes the sun (doo doo doo doo),
Here comes the sun, and I say
It’s time to drive
When most folks talk about travel it tends to revolve around the destination. People willingly sit aboard tubes of jet propelled aluminum for hours on end, just to look at some buildings that are different from the ones at home. People spend thousands of dollars to wake up with their body clocks still set to night when the sun in front of them is rising, to eat foods they saw once on Pinterest, and to check-in on social media in order to craft an online persona that’s more cosmopolitan than their suburban hometown would suggest.
To each their own. My aspirations are a little different.
Once upon a time the majority of new cars had these funny things called carburetors, devices that would dump into a motor some guesstimated amount of leaded fuel that would mostly combust before being ushered through the catless exhaust and into the lungs of the guy behind you. During this time those fancy automatic transmissions were a dammed expensive option, so the car in your driveway most likely had four speeds that required you to work three pedals to direct drive to the rear two wheels. During this time, also referred to as the Mid-Sixties, that driveway might have been occupied by that sweet, new Rambler powered by a 290ci ‘Typhoon’ V8. Or maybe you wanted to be a little different and parked-up a nice Barracuda with a more sedate but adequate Slant-6.
Or…maybe you went with one of them there foreign jobbies.
On tonight’s episode of Tribulations and Trials of the Impulse Buyer…
Flying alone underneath the tree canopy, I flick on the main beam. Though the lights are merely halogens, I marvel at how effective the H4s are in the night. The light seems to fill every nook in front of me, yet there’s a softness that preserves the colors. The darker green of the canopy, the lighter tones of lichen along the trunks, the mustard colored divider tightening up to the right…
With a slight feint, I huck the car in. The archaic rear stick-axle wants to slide, so I let it. The FB RX-7 does not want to be driven tidy, it wants to move. Happily, it seems faster this way. Switchback after switchback, come in with speed, flick the unassisted Nardi Classico, and delight in the tiny angles it clears the apex with.
Mid-engined, fuel injected, open topped, and available only with a manual transmission. Such a feature list is music to my ears. Music that sounds nearly as good as the horizontally opposed engine that powers this normally unloved canyon carver.
Is it a Porsche? Yes. Does it have a numerical designation? Yes. Is it a 718 Boxster?