Ah, sorta-spring in the northern climes. You don’t know whether you’re going to need a snow shovel for a late-season dump or a regular shovel for mud season. There’s seems to be a forty-degree difference between sweating in the sunshine and shivering in the shade. One side of your house has icicles, the other has squirrels chewing at the eaves.
That’s the time a young man’s mind turns to snowmobile/Ferrari racing.
Once upon a time, Handsome Squidward built a Sopwith Camel. It was marvelous beyond belief. In less than eight minutes, it transported me back to a time and place of peaceful contentment, toothpicks, Testor’s Pla, and squirrel hair brushes. Then the only German pilot who couldn’t possible shoot down an airplane, or hit anything else for that matter, showed up. The end.
Course I ain’t never been to London, and I ain’t never seen France. And I ain’t never seen no queen in her damned undies, so the feller says. But I’ll tell you what: After seeing camera-equipped drones followin’ motocross bikers, like this here story I’m about to unfold, well, I guess I seen somethin’ every bit as stupefyin’ as you’d seen in any of them other places.
Way back in the corner of the intertunnel. You know, on the shelf. Behind the other stuff. You need a flashlight, but it’s there. There are things on YouTube worth looking at.
Sure, you have to wade through Latvian talent show renditions of The Final Countdown played on ukulele, and Adele carpool karoake clips, but the stuff is there. There are interesting people doing commendable or mildly amusing things, or at least failing in the attempt in a charming way, while filming. There are people like Cold War Motors, making the world more exciting and less safe by putting 1960 Furys back on the road.
I’ve been blessed to have ridden in all sorts of vehicles, including old Plymouth Furys like this one, and even with all this water under the bridge, the questions remain the same. Can I get it to run? And if I can, can I get it to stop?