Volks,
	This story was posted earlier today on the Fordnatics mailing list,
of which I am also a member.  It had a lot in common with stories that
have been posted on this list, so I thought you all would enjoy it even
though it has no VW content.  Kemper Porter (the author) has given me
permission to repost his story.  He is a member of a car club called the
"Vicksburg Cruisers".  Apologies to those on both lists (probably just
Steve Maher) who have to see this twice.  :)  Hey, it *is* almost
Friday...

kporter@jackson.k12.ms.us writes:
> From owner-fordnatics@blob.best.net  Thu Mar 21 12:34:10 1996
> From: kporter@jackson.k12.ms.us
> To: fordnatics@blob.best.net ('fordnatics')
> Subject: My Wilde Ride (humor)
> Date: Thu, 21 Mar 96 12:23:00 PST
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> 
> I picked a carpentry project this weekend. I built my wife a locker for her 
> garden tools. As a younger man I worked the summer as a framer and could 
> send a nail home with one mighty blow of my trusty claw hammer. It is a 
> skill quite different from riding a bicycle I'm afraid - you can forget. My 
> good friend Lance, of Lonesome Ford Garage fame, was reclining on his side 
> observing impassively. He had in his hand a trowel and he was throwing it in 
> the ground trying to get it to stick upright. The wife unit had her lips 
> tightly pursed and I think she actually felt each miss-placed blow to my 
> digits. I had double struck some of them and actually saw shooting lines on 
> the inside of my eyelids. They looked to me like a road map of White Planes 
> New York. I once got lost there. I was wondering if I could find the exit 
> off the Mystic Valley Parkway that led to the cabinet shop where I could buy 
> a locker for my wife and end this torment. Through attrition I was down to 
> holding the nail with the pinkie and ring finger of my left hand. Opposable 
> thumbs are greatly over rated, I found myself thinking. I don't need them! I 
> could FALL out of the evolutionary tree just with what I have left.
> "I'm NOT a carpenter." I guessed wistfully. "That's another thing you don't 
> have in common with Jesus" my wife replied.
> It was looking pretty grim.
> I was losing wifely support. My ring finger seemed to be saying "take me if 
> you must - But not the pinkie! Not the baby finger! I really needed an 
> excuse to take a break. It came in the form of a Klaxon horn and a deep 
> throaty rumble from out front. Lance paused his effort to reach China 
> trans-terra and caught my eye. "Steve" we said. My wife waved me off happy 
> for the chance to clean my body fluids off her locker before they "stained 
> it". "Just bring back some groceries for lunch!" she said.
> Steve's ride is a T bucket. That's a car loosely based on a Model T Ford 
> grossly overpowered and exceedingly dangerous. It's dangerous at launch, 
> dangerous underway, dangerous in the rain, dangerous at idle, it's even 
> dangerous looked at sideways parked in the driveway. Steve's was just as 
> dangerous as any other T bucket ever to terrorize the Boulevard. It was 
> short, and squant, and mostly engine. It was built two decades ago and 
> sported the usual air brush graphics, in multiple hues of silver, that make 
> the 70ies a period of embarrassment to most Street Rodders. Not me. I love 
> the Rat Fink-eskness of the whole project. Ok, so this isn't the Beatnik 
> Bandit, but it has it's appeal. Steve was appointed in the driver's street 
> grinning at us through his salt and pepper beard. He had on rope soled deck 
> shoes and a flowered shirt. He had his cap on backwards and looked like 
> Catfish Hunter without his catcher's mask. I got the feeling we were going 
> to have a meeting at the mound where we discussed the next batter and spit 
> at each other's feet. A single key was stuck in the dash with a tiny silver 
> chain attached from which a bloodshot eyeball with wings depended. Steve 
> told us that was "Van". I didn't ask. The dashboard was devoid of all other 
> civilized accouterments like heater controls or radio dials. There were 
> business gages only here. The glove box was also a delete option. Up front 
> was the ubiquitous SBC (boo!) but it is topped by a genuine Scorpion Intake 
> (YEAH!). The little critter sits below the carburetor stinger arched. Very 
> ugly. I like it. On the floor was an automatic shifter off a Mustang II 
> (yeah!) marked "P", "N", and "GO". Just 'Tuck-n-roll' upholstery in grey 
> dead nauga's hide filling the back expanses of the tub. Out back is a 
> chopped Model T pickup bed topped with the same nauga motif. The huge 
> rolling meat sticks out from the limited slip rear end smirking toward the 
> world at large. All rolling stock is mounted on period perfect Crager SS 
> mags. Lance took it for the first ride. The doors are sealed shut so you 
> kind of jump in. The only advice Steve offered was "watch the pipes, they're 
> hot". After trying several different left leg positions, he fired 'er up. He 
> shot off toward the cove and spun around leaning over the driver's side door 
> into the turn. Weaving down the road toward us we stepped back up upon the 
> curb. In a shot he sunk down the hill and turned right up the main hill out 
> of our neighborhood. You could say he attacked that hill. The deep rumble of 
> the motor faded but we heard the high pitched yodel of his laugh across the 
> roof tops. He was back in no time. He braked at the bottom of the hill and 
> the inside drum locked chirping the rear tire gleefully. Lance let out 
> another Yodel and brought 'er to a stop. He must have contracted British Mad 
> Cow Disease because he began babbling and his eyes were loco. Steve turned 
> to me and said "watch the pipes". My heart thumped. I shoved Lance out of 
> the way and my lovely wife appeared and stepped on his foot climbing into 
> shotgun. Friendship only goes so far. I immediately hit the leg room delema 
> and decided on the "under the chin gambit". This solution involves tucking 
> your left leg up in front of the steering wheel altogether with your left 
> heel a few inched below your tukus. We were off. I found the tea cup 
> steering wheel twitchy but amazingly light. I tried to ease away from the 
> stop but the car leapt forward at the lightest touch of the move pedal. I 
> was leaning into the turn just as I had seen Lance do. As I passed Steve and 
> Lance they jumped up on the curb. I made the same right as Lance and stopped 
> at the main road. Straight across the street is the long wooded entrance to 
> St. Michael's Catholic church. Looked good to me. We TOOK the road down to 
> the church. It flattens out into an upper parking lot that swings away from 
> the church and toward the parish house. The good parson came out at our 
> approach and rotated his arms like helicopter blades. He was wearing a big 
> floppy hat he no doubt picked up on some foreign mission (or maybe at the 
> discount store, I don't know) and some cloth gloves with bright green 
> thumbs. I envied those thumbs - especially the left one. He might have been 
> saying "I'll see you in confession." but I didn't stick around to see. Heck, 
> I'm not even Catholic. I usually attend services at St. Mattress.
> Wifey jumped out when we got back, pronounced the trip fun, and handed me a 
> grocery list and made it clear there would be no lunch until I filled it. I 
> asked Steve for another ride in his little grocery getter and he agreed. At 
> the store we (or the car, or both) got several odd looks in the parking lot 
> but no one called the police. Inside we both grabbed a cart. Steve didn't 
> want anything but both of us wanted to drive. I threw in some extra junk 
> food after first checking the contents to be sure I had gotten the maximum 
> amount of MSG possible. We checked out and headed back to the ranch those 
> new fangled plastic bags between my feet.
> I'm afraid to say that experiments in quickness turned into top end 
> explorations and we ran amuck of the speed limit. We hit a bump at the 
> bridge leaving town and became air born, like all four corners. When we came 
> down I landed on the groceries. I heard a loud POP and my view vaporized in 
> a dervish of yellow free range cheetos. Steve grinned at me and pointed back 
> over his shoulder. I stopped trying to snap cheetos out of the air in front 
> of my nose and looked back to see that the cover for the pickup bed was 
> gone. We had to go back for it. Steve was remarkably calm about it when we 
> found it. It was of course scuffed and had a hole in the corner but he 
> shrugged it off. "That's hot rodding" he said.
> He began a demonstration of "run-on tire adhesion". That's when you get 
> going 55 or so and punch it to see if you can lite em up. He could. He did. 
> Several times. Then the top half of the windshield decided that was enough 
> with the herky jerky and it broke through the brass bracket on my side. 
> Steve laughed some more and began to flail me with the top half of the 
> window using the brake and throttle.
> When we got back, Sally looked at the groceries and kicked us all out of the 
> house. Steve said he had to go braise n' polish  the windshield bracket back 
> together anyway and took off. That is the first time I have actually seen - 
> up close - tires get bigger as they are spun. Lance and I retired to the 
> garage where all the tools and car mags are anyway and "made do" until Sally 
> felt like feeding us. I retold the Dukes of Hazzard jump we made over and 
> over until we had actually cleared the entire bridge and landed in the next 
> county.
> k.porter

-David

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David Schwarze                   '73 VW Safare Custom Camper       (Da Boat)
San Diego, California, USA       '73 Capri GT 2800                (Da Beast)
e-mail: des@teleport.com         '87 Mustang Lx 5.0          (13.986@100.81)
http://www.teleport.com/~des     '93 Weber WG-50                  (Da Piano)
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