I'm old enough to remember 1st gen catalytic converters setting lawns on fire. That means I'm also old enough to remember my parents driving ridiculously detuned cars, all under the guise of improved fuel economy.
Yesterday's Senate bill to increase CAFE is interesting to me. It will force for the first time the corporate average to actually count for the entire fleet. Right now, there are separate numbers for light trucks (PT Cruisers!) and cars. Pushing the cars up to 35 I can understand. We've had our days of World Horsepower War II, and it's been a good ride. But forcing trucks to fall under the 35 marker seems a bit much. A good Diesel pick-em-up truck will get 16-20 MPG highway unloaded. A good gasser will get around 15. These are work trucks that have to haul and pull and otherwise expend energy. Since mileage and power are often a compromise, what's going to happen to productivity?
Forgive me for sounding like I'm defending the automakers. It's just not in their interest to make slow, underpowered cars. We're not an underpowered country. Toyota's V8 is proof of that - you can't compete in the truck world without one. The cliff-drop in power that happened the first time CAFE came around is a part of what killed off the American carmakers' share of the US market. Why should I buy an underpowered Chevette when I can buy an underpowered Honda? The lack of power put everyone on the same playing field, and it was the war of crap cars for ten long years. I don't really want to live through that again. The first time was miserable - AMC Concord miserable. Mitsubishi Colt Vista miserable. No, I don't want that again.
The kind of engine research that will be required to pull stumps at 35mpg takes time. I'd hate to see the Arsenal of Democracy defeated by Congress. I'm rooting for our guys. If they pull it off this time, it had better be with more power.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Rough Roads
When I think of rough roads, I don't have to leave home. I just take a quick drive to one of the many unpaved roads right near my home in MI.
I really dread driving to visit some of my friends. They live on dirt roads, in one of the wealthiest counties in the US. In Georgia, an unpaved road was a stigma, a sign that you weren't socially cool enough for asphalt, that you were "dirt poor", that you were not ready for the big time. Here in Michigan, it means you get a tax break for living on an unimproved road. Um, there isn't a big enough tax break for me to live on a dirt road, honey. I have a nice car, and it's dark blue. No way in hell I'm putting up with a dirt road that washes out and pocks up every time it rains and is a dust storm when it's dry.
My gripes about the road conditions in MI were echoed recently by none other than a senior product planner at GM, whom I ran into on a camping trip. How bad are the roads in MI? How about "we do all of our rough road suspension development within 10 miles of Warren" bad. I prodded a bit, and turned up that GM suspension designers return from China, India, and even Costa Rica, and still find that Macomb county is sufficient to simulate driving on the worst roads the third world has to offer.
Lovely.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Driving Shoes
Wow. Sheilas' Driving Heels are now brought to you by the UK insurance firm specializing in insurance for female drivers. With a hot pink folding 15cm heel that collapses to a 2cm heel flat, supposedly they combine the best of driving performance with all the allure of your favorite spikes. Um, yeah.
I'd love to think these FM pumps were designed by a female, but I'll be damned before I believe that anything hot pink and patent black leather got past the girlie filter.
I'd also pretty much kill for a decent driving shoe with a 2" heel and some tread on it in a size 8AA.
Seriously. Women wear high heels to drive in because it's easier. Our size eight feet aren't as long as the men's size tens that modern cars are designed around, in fact they're barely as long as a paltry men's six. We need the extra leverage that rocking on that 3"er gives us. We hate the damage to our Manolos and our Van Elis alike that rubbing on the floor mats results in, but driving in flats is for the vultures. My track shoes are an old pair of Joan and Davids that are kind of ugly. The 4cm wedge lifts my ankle to the happy point for the clutch pedal, and that's enough of a beautiful thing for me to fear the day they wear out.
Step up, you foolio shoe builders. Women drive cars, too.
I'd love to think these FM pumps were designed by a female, but I'll be damned before I believe that anything hot pink and patent black leather got past the girlie filter.
I'd also pretty much kill for a decent driving shoe with a 2" heel and some tread on it in a size 8AA.
Seriously. Women wear high heels to drive in because it's easier. Our size eight feet aren't as long as the men's size tens that modern cars are designed around, in fact they're barely as long as a paltry men's six. We need the extra leverage that rocking on that 3"er gives us. We hate the damage to our Manolos and our Van Elis alike that rubbing on the floor mats results in, but driving in flats is for the vultures. My track shoes are an old pair of Joan and Davids that are kind of ugly. The 4cm wedge lifts my ankle to the happy point for the clutch pedal, and that's enough of a beautiful thing for me to fear the day they wear out.
Step up, you foolio shoe builders. Women drive cars, too.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Last summer, my sons got a copy of the old MGM version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. To me, the most amazing thing was that they sat unmoving through all two and a half sticky-sickly-sweet and enormously non-Bond hours of it. I can only wonder what the Broccolis were thinking when they approved that script.
Afterwards, my older one asked if there really was a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and where she was. And could cars really fly?
We know from Ian Fleming's text (sadly ignored in the movie) that Chitty was based on a real car, a Zborowski special based on a Mercedes chassis with a six cylinder Maybach engine. A whopping 75 horsepower lugged five tons of grey steel to short-track wins at the Brooklands in 1921 and 1922. A bit of a character, she up-ended the Count into the timing booth at her last race and was summarily retired as too cantankerous to trust on the track. In the text, she was a Paragon Panther, dark green, with a twelve cylinder, eight litre supercharged motor (quite a stretch there!), and the winner of all sorts of races at all sorts of tracks in England. In my childhood, Chitty most definitely did exist, and she lived in Rocky River, Ohio.
We'd never seen the movie as kids, only read the book, so anything long, green, noisy, and in possession of an open cockpit was grounds for fertile imaginations to take over. While visiting some friends of our parents, we were whisked off to the carriage house where a tarp was pulled back to show off the owner's latest acquisition. Underneath sat what we little ones knew (absolutely knew!) had to be Chitty Chitty Bang Bang herself. She was ratty and in serious need of a rebuild, but her owner was beside himself with excitement about her purchase, and we could see the ghost of Commander Potts dancing in his eyes.
It was in possession of all the required parts – long green snout, exposed radiator, peeling paint, and not least of all, a giant brass klaxon horn. I am pretty sure that the horn was not stock. The dashboard did not have quite as many lights and switches as we expected, but maybe those were magic, too.
The limited amount of inspections permitted to three little girls revealed no wings or propellers or other such magical gear, but there was no convincing us – the car under the tarp was Chitty, and she was just waiting for her Commander Potts to take over.
Some time later, we heard her fired up, and we knew (absolutely knew!) we had found the magical beast of Fleming's imagination.
Time went by, and we lost track of the friends and car.
By the time I had turned thirteen, I was pretty sure that there was no real Chitty and cars did not ever fly. The car under the tarp never lost its mystery, though. A bit of research turned up its real identity – a Brooklands Riley, raced on the same track that Zborowski's Mercedes won at. Kind of funny how that worked out. While nowhere near the size of the real Chitty, it was faster than Zborowski's beast and probably a bit easier to drive. It was one of the cars that cemented the role of open cockpits in my dreams.
I'd like to find that Riley and show it to my sons. I'm really curious about what happened to it – was it restored, is it still in that family, does it even still exist? Who knows?
I'd mostly like for them to believe that Chitty was real for a little bit, too.
Afterwards, my older one asked if there really was a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and where she was. And could cars really fly?
We know from Ian Fleming's text (sadly ignored in the movie) that Chitty was based on a real car, a Zborowski special based on a Mercedes chassis with a six cylinder Maybach engine. A whopping 75 horsepower lugged five tons of grey steel to short-track wins at the Brooklands in 1921 and 1922. A bit of a character, she up-ended the Count into the timing booth at her last race and was summarily retired as too cantankerous to trust on the track. In the text, she was a Paragon Panther, dark green, with a twelve cylinder, eight litre supercharged motor (quite a stretch there!), and the winner of all sorts of races at all sorts of tracks in England. In my childhood, Chitty most definitely did exist, and she lived in Rocky River, Ohio.
We'd never seen the movie as kids, only read the book, so anything long, green, noisy, and in possession of an open cockpit was grounds for fertile imaginations to take over. While visiting some friends of our parents, we were whisked off to the carriage house where a tarp was pulled back to show off the owner's latest acquisition. Underneath sat what we little ones knew (absolutely knew!) had to be Chitty Chitty Bang Bang herself. She was ratty and in serious need of a rebuild, but her owner was beside himself with excitement about her purchase, and we could see the ghost of Commander Potts dancing in his eyes.
It was in possession of all the required parts – long green snout, exposed radiator, peeling paint, and not least of all, a giant brass klaxon horn. I am pretty sure that the horn was not stock. The dashboard did not have quite as many lights and switches as we expected, but maybe those were magic, too.
The limited amount of inspections permitted to three little girls revealed no wings or propellers or other such magical gear, but there was no convincing us – the car under the tarp was Chitty, and she was just waiting for her Commander Potts to take over.
Some time later, we heard her fired up, and we knew (absolutely knew!) we had found the magical beast of Fleming's imagination.
Time went by, and we lost track of the friends and car.
By the time I had turned thirteen, I was pretty sure that there was no real Chitty and cars did not ever fly. The car under the tarp never lost its mystery, though. A bit of research turned up its real identity – a Brooklands Riley, raced on the same track that Zborowski's Mercedes won at. Kind of funny how that worked out. While nowhere near the size of the real Chitty, it was faster than Zborowski's beast and probably a bit easier to drive. It was one of the cars that cemented the role of open cockpits in my dreams.
I'd like to find that Riley and show it to my sons. I'm really curious about what happened to it – was it restored, is it still in that family, does it even still exist? Who knows?
I'd mostly like for them to believe that Chitty was real for a little bit, too.
Well, my summer vacation just improved quite a bit..
I, too, was planning a road trip to NJ, but not for anything as exciting as a car show. I was going to visit relatives of my automotively challenged spouse. If that wasn’t enough punishment, we would also be going to Baltimore, for reasons I haven’t yet figured out.
Every once in a while, he comes through, and this is going to be one of those times. He just doesn’t know it yet. We’ve added Biltmore to our itinerary. And how do you get to Biltmore, you ask? Well, it depends……
Most people head down I75 and pick up I40 east at Knoxville. I’ve got the I75 part down, but the I40 part ain’t happening. I’ll be skipping that in favor of the Tail of the Dragon. Count on as many pics as I can upload over whatever wireless I can find in the backwoods of Tennessee and North Carolina.
Every once in a while, he comes through, and this is going to be one of those times. He just doesn’t know it yet. We’ve added Biltmore to our itinerary. And how do you get to Biltmore, you ask? Well, it depends……
Most people head down I75 and pick up I40 east at Knoxville. I’ve got the I75 part down, but the I40 part ain’t happening. I’ll be skipping that in favor of the Tail of the Dragon. Count on as many pics as I can upload over whatever wireless I can find in the backwoods of Tennessee and North Carolina.
My summer vacation just came crashing to the ground.
I just got word that VW's Thunder Bunny ground effects kit got delayed (until October--I mean, who doesn't buy their body kits in winter?) and since our Rabbit was supposed to be one of the first cars in the country to be fitted with the kit, it was scheduled to be shown at Waterfest to generate interest. Well, no kit, and now no Waterfest.
Yes, driving from Chicago to New Jersey, spending two days at a VW show, and driving back constituted my summer vacation.
See what I meant in today's other post, about cars controlling my life? No summer trips, no honeymoon after my wedding... just cars. All the time.
Yes, driving from Chicago to New Jersey, spending two days at a VW show, and driving back constituted my summer vacation.
See what I meant in today's other post, about cars controlling my life? No summer trips, no honeymoon after my wedding... just cars. All the time.
Hopes and Dreams for Sale.
Melodramatic? Why, yes.
If I wasn't so frustrated (read: panicked) by this phenomenon, I'd be rather amused: Problems with our household vehicles would be solved, more or less, if I found a job that was accessible via commuter rail.
I found out yesterday afternoon that the owners of my GTI's storage space may be moving, so I immediately posted the car up for sale. It's been for sale intermittently over the last several months, and it's been an emotional roller-coaster that I'm tired of riding. I cannot afford to rent a storage space to keep the car, and have yet to discover a cheap or free alternative.
Except...
If I get a job that is accessible by public transportation (for example, almost anywhere in downtown Chicago--I am not at all intimidated by a 10-, 15-, 20-block walk to and from the train station) my fiance can sell his car (which he seems to want to do anyway), take primary custody of our Rabbit (with the added benefit that he would stop referring to our car as if it belongs to me--I'm not sure why this bothers me, but it does), and the GTI could rest (mostly) peacefully in a corner of our village's parking garage.
Unfortunately, I'm smack in the middle of a lucrative six-month contract currently scheduled to end right before our wedding, complete with a commute that absolutely requires a car. So for now, here's hoping someone will come along and shell out wads of cash for a 16-year-old econobox stuffed full of irreplaceable OEM+ parts, which would effectively bring to a close my days of owning, modifying, and showing a car that reflects my personality.
If I wasn't so frustrated (read: panicked) by this phenomenon, I'd be rather amused: Problems with our household vehicles would be solved, more or less, if I found a job that was accessible via commuter rail.
I found out yesterday afternoon that the owners of my GTI's storage space may be moving, so I immediately posted the car up for sale. It's been for sale intermittently over the last several months, and it's been an emotional roller-coaster that I'm tired of riding. I cannot afford to rent a storage space to keep the car, and have yet to discover a cheap or free alternative.
Except...
If I get a job that is accessible by public transportation (for example, almost anywhere in downtown Chicago--I am not at all intimidated by a 10-, 15-, 20-block walk to and from the train station) my fiance can sell his car (which he seems to want to do anyway), take primary custody of our Rabbit (with the added benefit that he would stop referring to our car as if it belongs to me--I'm not sure why this bothers me, but it does), and the GTI could rest (mostly) peacefully in a corner of our village's parking garage.
Unfortunately, I'm smack in the middle of a lucrative six-month contract currently scheduled to end right before our wedding, complete with a commute that absolutely requires a car. So for now, here's hoping someone will come along and shell out wads of cash for a 16-year-old econobox stuffed full of irreplaceable OEM+ parts, which would effectively bring to a close my days of owning, modifying, and showing a car that reflects my personality.
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