We all know this, but it must be reiterated.
I REALLY love my car.
It's not the most practical, namely because it has the little boost gauge measuring how far from straight thinking I'm getting as the turbo scream intensifies, and the turbo scream that can itself completely disconnect my rationality, and then I'm shifting out of 3rd gear and doing 80.
Or I'm driving home from the south, around the hairpins and switchbacks, and suddenly the turbo scream modulates to tire scream and the thunk of groceries-turned-projectiles placed unsecured with the heartfelt resolution to not, in any way, allow the boost gauge to flip on the mentally-disengaging fun switch.
But it always seems to fail. It's like asking a mother to ignore the screaming of her newborn--she might be able to put it off for long enough to take an embarrassing picture of a screaming face, but it just can't be ignored.
Even when I was fresh back from Thailand, driving Hwy 20 in the first downpour of the season, and scared the b'jeezes out of myself coming around a turn in a cloud of hydroplaning spray and smack into the stare of a deer in the other lane. It was a terrible moment, realizing that even if I'm staying in bounds while pushing myself, the road, and my car to the brink, what'll do me in is another driver or a deer in my lane, and if I'm already right on the brink, I would turn into the yahoo who T-boned me. It scared me enough to relax and enjoy the rain and fog in the redwoods, right up until the fog lifted and I had enough visibility and space for the turbo scream to flip the fun switch and then it was back to the first step of hell-for-leather.
Here lies the true thrill of the MG TD.
From miles away, it looks spindly with the narrow tyres separated from the long, narrow bonnet by half-melon lights, low-slung suicide doors, exposed radiator cap, and chrome bumpers too low to do much good against anything harder than the aged-wood frame.
From a greater proximity, "rattletrap" is a likely sensation--the doors are probably held closed by a jerry-rigged contraption (or just bungees) that also holds on the dash, from which dangle wires that can be contacted or disconnected by hand because the buttons/switches in the dash no longer work, and the levers and linkages and rods and rails are visible through the carpeting.
Once you've climbed in, secured the doors, climbed back out to track down a pillow to keep your backside above speedbumps, back in, re-secured the doors, negotiated the pedals designed for an early-tweenie's feet, deciphered which knob is the starter, pulled off the dashboard, secured the dashboard, had the starter knob come off in your hand, determined which wires it's supposed to connect, figured out how to simultaneously get contact in the ignition and starter wires, and the engine actually starts, you feel pretty damn good.
Then, to get your feet disengaged from the pedals and eventually engage the transmission, by the time you're moving it feels like a victory.
By the time you're in top gear and screaming along at 40, the steering wheel jumping almost as wildly as your insides, wind battering your ears, the road racing visibly past inches from your bum, the transmission screaming in protest with your left shoe wedged around the steering column to keep the dash intact, your right shoe melting in the blast from the engine compartment, your knuckles are white and your fingers are numb despite the weather, and that 40 MPH is a helluva lot more hell-for-leather adrenaline than anything you can find in a new car.
Even the time I tried to floor out my car and scream through the top of 4th into 5th and got too scared to keep accelerating into 5th--there are some things that are stupid enough to flip off the fun switch--even that adrenaline pales at the prospect of getting the TD into third.
How refreshing, how empowering to drive like hell and feel relief when the speed limit drops back to 25, to drive flat-out without the paranoia of avoiding a ticket.
And that's the key, the contrast between the wonder of modern technology, the magic of a vehicle that floats happily along at 120, and the grounding reality of how fast you're really going WITHOUT having to meet the asphalt. But that's another story.
Sent from Candid Brutus the iPad
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