My shirt was drenched. It was getting difficult to breathe in the hot confines of a car that had only plexiglas for doors, but the driver was an island of peace. He gently rubbed off his sweat with a tissue paper and then, floored
the throttle. Ludicrous, absurd, irrational. The corner was coming up fast as the dozen odd dials on the dash started to move in their respective orbits. Then as the road curved, he yanked the handbrake and the car gently let its tail out. He
over-corrected for a fraction before the tail kicked back in. Insane, idiotic, incomprehensible. Separated by a can of nitrous oxide on the central tunnel and a vast gulf between two schools of thought, I sat on the side of the chasm that now wanted to cross over to the other side. How could a car, whose genesis roots back to the 1970s, be so quick as to keep well-tuned Mitsubishi Lancers honest in a drag? Shouldn’t it just heat up, sputter and die? Disbelief, disbelief, disbelief!
Then as we got out of the car to catch our breath and wipe our brow, a pristinely maintained, yet pleasingly throaty Ambassador rolled up to join the party. It looked factory fresh because it’d rolled out of the paint booth the evening prior to the shoot. A 1979 Ambassador and a 1986 Contessa, both should be part of a story whose slug should have read Long Time No See, and yet, it’s right here, carrying an Issue Special tag. That too in an issue that reads Summer of Speed. Something must be wrong, you say. Nothing is.
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