Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

[ishmael]

I was just remembering cruising down the freeway on a day not unlike this. Top down, a beautiful blond babe under my arm, and the sky was the limit. Ah, yute.

It was a picture, people were honking their horns, ogling. Great fun. One of those moments that just sticks in your mind.

[Canoeyawl]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

Ahh- the good ol' days
I tend to remember an old station wagon, the cold winter evenings in an empty parking lot out behind the high school with a blonde under each arm… the windows all steamed up.

[Popeye]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

ah yes , i do recall driving down the highway
i think it was in a new cadillac
i had a fine fox in front and i had three more in the back

[Hwyl]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

It should have been me (the Ray Charles version is better, apparently not on youtube).

Next time I'll steal Ish's women

[Beowolf]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

aaa...yup.

Reminds me of the time that I got into a bit of trouble of the vehicular nature.

You see, I didn't grow up in a life of privilege like everyone else around me seemed to. Fortunately for me, I managed to attend the same elite college that all of them did and my simple pragmatic ways always seemed to get the best of all of them.

Anyways, there was this one time that I pulled up to a light at Woodward and 12 mile, and who should pull up next to me but the star quarterback-homecoming king-starting pitcher & ace closer-class president, all rolled up into one 220 lb, tanned, blonde haired, blue eyed, son of a congressman. In the passenger seat of his Daytona (Hand-built by Carol Shelby, himself) sat his girlfriend, the head cheerleader, volleyball playing, class vice-president and president of the French club (..and I’m not talking about the language!) daughter of a Senator.

Of course, unbeknownst to ol’ Butch (the QB), I was in the midst of an inside-out revamping of my 1974 Ford Maverick. I had swapped out the stock inline six with a 429 Big Block and twin Webber 1180’s (Or some big number like that), and racing headers that I won from Bobby Allison in a game of Mahjong back in 71 (but that’s a story for another time). Since I grew up in a tool shop, it was nothing for me to balance and print the whole motor assembly, as well as casting my own pistons to handle the increased compression that I was running (I think it was like 16.5:1 but I could be off by a bit).

So there we are at the light. Butchy’s got the Daytona screaming somewhere north of 5500 rpms. I see the light at 12 mile turn yellow. Since I’d taken the time to time all the lights just a couple of weekends before, I knew that I had precisely 2.395 seconds before we got the green. The light flashed and I pulled a .006 reaction time. But unfortunately, I’m still looking at the taillights of the Daytona, you see, a previous car had leaked oil onto my lane and my tires were simply cooking themselves into a steaming pile of vulcanized poop. So I feather off the gas pedal and give the Ford 9 inch rear end a chance to get the rubber to the road, but by now, the Daytona’s got 50 yards on me. Not to worry though, I made by first shift at 7500 rpm’s and crossed the next light (quarter mile away) just as the needle was passing 156 miles per hour. At 9.42 seconds, it wasn’t the best run that the ol’ rusty Maverick had in her, but there was that bit about the oil. And it was 3.8 ticks quicker than the Daytona. Needless to say I couldn’t accept Butch’s pink slip (Think of the shame that would befall the congressman, if his son was caught losing to one of them “salt of the earth” types.) But immediately after the race, I found that the my right side Recaro now filled by the girl formerly known as Butch’s girlfriend.

Of course, that wasn’t the only company that I had. It seemed that my teaching the upper echelon a lesson that they so richly deserved had attracted Ferndale’s finest, and he had radioed ahead to all of the surrounding communities of Royal Oak, Birmingham, and Troy. So off I go, screaming north on Woodward with a full entourage of troopers in hot pursuit. Now as I said, the Maverick was a work in progress and I really hadn’t set up the suspension yet for such things as turning, stopping, or even extended driving at triple digit speeds, so she was beginning to shake and shimmy pretty bad. I pulled a 105 mph powerslide onto Long Lake and went screaming east, but no amount of gas could bring the back end around quick enough at the speed that I needed and the red and blue flashers were getting bigger by the second. So Buffy (‘bout time I give her a name) screams at me to pull into the next driveway. (She’d actually been screaming quite a bit for the past 2 and a half minutes, but not about anything in particular…) She jumps out of the car and runs up the garage and flings open the door. Inside is her daddy’s mint condition 1976 Ferrari 308 GTB, so we ditch the Maverick and hopped in the 308. We made out for a bit, then mashed the Italian gas pedal to the Italian floorboards and shot out, directly at the cops who had finally closed in on us. There were powerslides all over the place behind us, and more that a couple of cars were dinged. (You throw that many J’s on one line and more than a few of them are bound to cross each other…)

By time they caught sight of us (Buffy and I were and “item” by then) we were running through the gears on I-75 North. Next stop…Bay City. Now I won’t get into all the details of the next 40 minutes (Obviously we had to get off and on the highway more than a few times as the police had radioed ahead and set up road blocks, and then there was that whole mess in Saginaw…I mean seriously, who in the hell puts a drawbridge on an expressway?) We powered down in Bay City, where I knew of a filling station that served race-fuel. So I sent Buffy in to grab us some paczkis and Vernors while I gassed up the 308. While manning the pump, I noticed some guys out back digging a hole. Beside the hole was a large rolled up carpet.

“How’s it going, fellas?” I asked.
“Oh, pretty well.” One of them repied.
“Fantastic night for a drive” I said.
“Ferrari?” The other man asked.
“Absolutely.” I said.

Just then Buffy came running out, screaming that we were on the local radio. So back in the car and off we went. Never did figure out why someone would bury a perfectly good carpet.

So back on the expressway and 550+ horsepower is sending us to the Big Mac at over 168 mph. It wasn’t until we breached Mackinac City that we realized that we were running out of both gas and expressway. Halfway across the bridge I realized my final error. They had me. State Troopers sealed off the south end. A fleet of Tour Busses deputized by the St. Ignace Sherriff had walled off the north end.

I pulled the car to curb, halfway across the bridge and told Buffy to get out. It wasn’t fair to her. This was my doing and it would be my undoing as well. She wailed that she could never love anyone like she loved me and that we should go out together like Ozzy and Harriet, Heathcliff and Catherine, or Butch and Sundance, but through her tear-filled protests, I sped off towards the Tour Bus blockade. I had decided to try them as I was sure that troopers who had pursued me this far were pretty much case-hardened and wouldn’t budge.

But wait! They had simply parked the busses and left them there, unoccupied! No drivers meant no one to drive them out of the way! Judicious use of the gas, brake, clutch, hand brake and turn-signal produced a 65 mph u-turn in a space smaller than that occupied by the car. I had to take my shot with the officers who had brought me this far.

But Lo!! As I crossed the bridge, a sudden gust lifted the sculpted Italian steel (and aluminum and fiberglass) and tossed it over the bridge. I was flung out through the window and was unceremoniously dumped into the Straits of Mackinac, some 300 feet below, directly in front of 42 foot Tartan that was participating in the Chicago to Mackinac race. I bartered my way on board by agreeing to take a position on the foredeck. At first I was reluctant, what with the broken ribs that I had sustained from the impact with the icy water, but the police and Buffy (poor, poor Buffy) believed me to be dead and would not be sending a rescue craft for me, so beggers shant be choosers. Through the heavy seas and gale force winds, I performed a daring mid-air procedure while hanging onto the spinnaker uphaul to avoid a catastrophic broach and enabled us to take line honors. I was awarded the race MVP.

So anyways, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

[Hwyl]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

That ain't nothin'

[oznabrag]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

ah yes , i do recall driving down the highway
i think it was in a new cadillac
i had a fine fox in front and i had three more in the back

Izzat 'cause you're bad?

Are you nation wide?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQCjeb5Dc6s

[David G]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

That ain't nothin'

Truly, dude.

One day... feed my enough good booze, and I'll tell you the tale of the Fiat and the Gray Whale.

[ishmael]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

Kris, the blond, had a face that would grace a Grecian urn. Classic beauty. I didn't know how I had found this, and fumbled it. A nice, honest woman, too.

But at that moment we didn't care; just riding down the highway with the top down. Devil may care.

I wonder what became of Kris. Last I spoke with her she was married to a shoe salesman, had popped a kid or two. It wasn't going that well, and her hair is probably gray.

[Popeye]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

was she going to be an actress ..

me , i'm fly'n in my cab

[oznabrag]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

Kris, the blond, had a face that would grace a Grecian urn. Classic beauty. I didn't know how I had found this, and fumbled it. A nice, honest woman, too.

But at that moment we didn't care; just riding down the highway with the top down. Devil may care.

I wonder what became of Kris. Last I spoke with her she was married to a shoe salesman, had popped a kid or two. It wasn't going that well, and her hair is probably gray.

So.... Go For It, Dude!!!

She'll be easy to find, and you have a gray hair or two yourself, most likely.

At the very least y'all can rent a convertible and drive a hundred miles or two. It would do you a world of good, man. Just do it.

[bamamick]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

I know from personal experience that there is not a darn thing wrong with a woman just because her hair is gray.

Mickey Lake

[Popeye]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

snow on the roof don't mean there ain't a fire in the basement

[shamus]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

Boewulf

[TomF]

Re: Convertibles, blonds, and sunny weather

In 1st year university, I found myself thoroughly confused by my good luck. Motorbike, utterly stunning blonde girlfriend, and (barely) enough money to sustain both.

Neither lasted, and good thing; the blonde's wrapping was far more interesting than what was inside. But oh, what wrapping.

It made for an exciting year or so 'till it all blew up.