Life in the fast lane is the only way to travel.
Being an adult is no reason to stop playing with Hot Wheels. I like it even better when I haven’t left my coffee cup on the roof.
The low bucket seats don’t give me leg cramps or backaches. The roar of the engine sounds better than a radio.
Plus, the generation gap is smaller in a Porsche than any place else on earth.
I get a lot of teasing about my car. Maybe it’s because I drive a vintage, silver Porsche, hardtop convertible.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Why would a retired, grey-haired old man want to drive around in a sports car?
“Is he trying to prove he’s not getting any older?”
I’ve heard it all before. Save your breath.
I got my first taste of life in the fast lane about 40 years ago. My wife bought me a 1975, 4-speed Corvette convertible with side pipes and mag wheels for my birthday. She said I needed to replenish myself. I took her advice.
When I sold that beauty to one of my former students, it was like putting one of my kids up for adoption. I just wasn’t able to drive it enough to keep it in top shape.
A few years later, my former student returned the favor. He brought me a new Corvette convertible, again a red one. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. “If you want it, you can have it for what you want to pay me, when you want to pay me.”
What could I say?
My 16-year-old nephew couldn’t have been more excited. Rolling me a fajita at the Rio Grande, he said to me: “Johnnie, he’s trying to do you a favor. Don’t q***r the deal.”
Maybe that’s one of the perks of being a teacher.
Your students remember you later in life and want to do something for you.
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Anyway, I didn’t know anything about the sportscarsubculture when I got my first Vette. I just liked the car, especially the neat headlights that turned a flip, and the fast getaway and the barking tires when I speed-shifted the vehicle on the pavement.
Spinning wheels is addictive, even for someone wellbeyond his teenage years.
Showing off your Vette’s quick take–off by smoking rubber is an urge you have to learn to control, unless you want to get points added to your driver’s license, or wind up in the ditch.
Guess one of these days I’ll get sportscars out of my system; I haven’t yet, though.
Something about sliding in those bucket seats and smelling the leather that still makes the adrenaline flow.
It has a ton of power, and temptation to speed is a constant problem. It is, after all, a racecar capable of 200 mph.
Some people say they are unsafe, but I say it is the way people drive them that creates a high accident rate.
Actually, with the lower center of gravity, wide tires, fast getaway, and ability to be maneuvered can be a safety factor—as long as you can behave yourself.
But again, I had to let that one get away a few years back, on account of an illness in the family.
Well, now I drive a vintage Porche convertible. Long story short, my wife bought it for me about six months ago after I went through triple by-pass heart surgery at CAMC in Charleston. Only had 13,000 miles on it.
Now, when I drive up on the parking lot of a restaurant, a young man with his dinner date invariably will come over and say, “Boy, I like your ride.”
I smile, but I doubt if he could ever afford the insurance. At his age, it would be the high-risk insurance pool, for sure.
But I always just grin and say, “Thanks, I hope you get one someday. They are a lot of fun!”
Why kill a dream?
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So, I have to take a lot of kidding about being on an ego trip, having a mid–life crisis, driving a sports car—even about having more car than I can handle.
I don’t worry too much about what people think.
I just keep my eyes on the road and my foot on the accelerator.
I was young once, so I know the risks and the consequences.
And I know what I’m talking about.
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Top of the morning!