So the other day, I dropped in on 8 Barrel and the missus.
8 has a “new” car, a BMW 3 Series E90. It is a 335i, which means somewhere between 306 and 335 bhp. Wifey has an E93 335i – this:
Both are hella fast. The 4 door is my choice for most purposes, except a drive to the beach. But this is not a road test.
Somewhere around 1988-90, 8 had a Mustang GT. When he was shopping, we test drove a new one. Yes, “we.” I drove so long, the salesman got pissed, because i was not in any way a buyer – just a hooner. Eventually, 8 settled on an ’87. This:
Actual color photo
I loved that car and that I knew a dude who drove one. I was no fan of the color, since it didn’t have any* (except a blue rubstrip stripe) but the car was fucking awesome for late ’80s Detroit.
Black, white, silver and grey are not “colors” for flaunty cars. It’s a fact.
We went all sorts of places in it, and had adventures, great and mundane. But one constant prevailed. 8 ALWAYS drove. That was fine, being his car and all, but damn, dude. The one time i get to drive it is at a respectable speed, following you home on your motorcycle? I don’t think I got out of third gear.
I at least had the sense to turn over my keys to 8 on occasion, mostly so we wouldn’t be killed by me.
So fast forward to the present day. There are two BMWs. I am feeling frisky, being as old as the Rolling Stones and Porsche 911s. 8 carries a tinge of guilt for his stoic, probably wise choice of his safety over my lunacy from the Mustang days. I’m over it, but 8 thinks he should have given me one shot before it got traded in on a Scorpio. [Ed.: Probably because if you
predictably totalled the mustang, the deal would be killed and he would have bought an Accord.]
So he tosses me the keys.
Unlike the past, we set down the freshly opened beers. Unlike the past, I not only have license to drive balls out, 8 is showing me how to reach ludicrous speed even faster.
8: Step one: do not start in 6th gear.
Simulated image. Closed course, professional driver. do not attempt. Your mileage may vary.
So there’s a blast up and down a winding tree- and water-lined road. Coming from Arizona, I don’t even recognize what those things are, but they seem nice and soft. Much more so than the people who are yelling at us to “slow the fuck down,” like we’re hooning an Opel.
Then it’s convertible time. I think it’s been 20+ years since the last time i drove one. The E93 is basically a secretary car with
only one a turbo, torque balls and a real live 6-speed manual to counter its softer suspension and inherent effeteness. I take it much easier on this car due to the ride and the fact that 8′s wife will throw knives if I scratch it.
History has a way of repeating itself. Iraq:Syria. Notre Dame sucks; Notre Dame still sucks. And its true here, too. We’re driving down a two lanes, one way street. The lady in the Malibu to my right wants to turn left onto the upcoming street. from that lane. Without bothering to change lanes or even look in our lane. It’s the best of “Flat out on Westnedge”
8 (shotgun): Oh shit.
Dr. Gonzo: Oh look McDonalds. Mmmmm, cheeseburger.
8: Oh shit!
Dr. Gonzo: Huh? OH SHIT!!!
and the time I totalled a Buick Century, that pulled the same turn across my path move from beside me, with my Marquis(so I planted it on the curb in front of the Osco). Except the screaming was less this time. And we stopped short of kicking her ass into the weeds. [Ed. Because: knives. ^^]
Then it’s back to the 8 Barrel estate to finally finish those beers before we head to dinner. But where are the keys? To either car?
Me: WHY IS EVERYBODY LOOKING AT ME? Oh wait. These keys? How’d those get there?