Whatever you do, don't rent it from Avis. And definitely not at the airport.
Granted this all happened a lot of moons ago. And yes, scheduling has improved since then. But take my word for it - don't rent your getaway car from an airport car rental.
One white Lincoln Towncar. That's what I wanted. Not a Continental, not a Grand Marquis, not a General Motors product. I wanted a White Lincoln Towncar preferably with a white leather interior. My husband-to-be dutifully reserved one of the hundred Lincolns in the lot and reminded the guy - "it's my wedding. My fiancee wants a white one." He called on thursday to make sure it was there for us. He called before he went down to pick it up on friday. "Oh yes, Mr H, we have a white one here for you, just like you asked." Famous last words.
I didn't see it until after the wedding had actually started. That was not a problem, because I didn't know that what I was looking at was MY getaway car. I figured my in-laws had rented the black Towncar, because after all, their son was surely going to go to hell for marrying me. How little did I know the magnitude of my prescience.
It wasn't until after the birdseed was lodged firmly in my brassiere and my too-small Martha Washingtons that I understood the magnitude of that big black Lincoln Towncar.
My getaway car was a hearse.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
White wedding
My wedding is three months from today.
We haven't booked a photographer; hell, we haven't found someone to officiate the ceremony. Invitations are still squarely in the concept stage. We have no clothing. Our wedding party has no clothing. My parents are negotiating with caterers.
By all rights, I should be panicking, but I'm convinced that will all somehow work itself out. My concern? The getaway car.
Any suggestions? I think it would make for a pretty unique R8 review.
We haven't booked a photographer; hell, we haven't found someone to officiate the ceremony. Invitations are still squarely in the concept stage. We have no clothing. Our wedding party has no clothing. My parents are negotiating with caterers.
By all rights, I should be panicking, but I'm convinced that will all somehow work itself out. My concern? The getaway car.
Any suggestions? I think it would make for a pretty unique R8 review.
I recall...
At about 6:30 this morning, I was behind the wheel of my Rabbit, fantasizing about the coffee I planned to buy as soon as I arrived at work, at least until I was jarred out of my stupor by a vanity plate affixed to the back of a ridiculously lavish chrome-trimmed black Lincoln Navigator: SKI VT 74.
And with that, I was back. Recalling the place where going out to dinner means a fish sandwich topped with local cheddar at Vermont Pub and Brewery (accompanied, of course, by a plate of sweet potato fries and a pint of maple ale). Where my beloved Magic Hat #9 is on tap everywhere. About half the cars on the road are Subaru Legacy wagons. Most of the population is blissfully unaware that Suzuki even manufactures passenger vehicles. The term "winter beater" can be dropped into casual conversation without a lengthy explanation. My 1991 GTI was one of the nicest cars in my apartment parking lot. People can change their own spare tires. The two interstate highways are toll-free, and are rarely more than two lanes wide. Motorists stop and offer help to drivers of disabled vehicles. A ban on billboards is strictly enforced (and trust me, you don't miss them).
I was still daydreaming several miles later, stuck in work zone traffic; my body (aching clutch foot and all) were in Illinois, but mentally, I was still in Vermont, where my thoughts had turned to pancake breakfasts doused with local maple syrup and steaming mugs of cinnamon-flavored Green Mountain Coffee. As if to bring me back to reality, a shiny Jeep Wrangler suddenly veered off the paved section of road, dropping about six inches into the construction mess, sending up clouds of dirt. It passed a few cars that were stopped, waiting to turn, and then climbed back up and continued on its way.
At least there's someone else among the snooty suburban Chicagoans who's not afraid to get an SUV dirty.
And with that, I was back. Recalling the place where going out to dinner means a fish sandwich topped with local cheddar at Vermont Pub and Brewery (accompanied, of course, by a plate of sweet potato fries and a pint of maple ale). Where my beloved Magic Hat #9 is on tap everywhere. About half the cars on the road are Subaru Legacy wagons. Most of the population is blissfully unaware that Suzuki even manufactures passenger vehicles. The term "winter beater" can be dropped into casual conversation without a lengthy explanation. My 1991 GTI was one of the nicest cars in my apartment parking lot. People can change their own spare tires. The two interstate highways are toll-free, and are rarely more than two lanes wide. Motorists stop and offer help to drivers of disabled vehicles. A ban on billboards is strictly enforced (and trust me, you don't miss them).
I was still daydreaming several miles later, stuck in work zone traffic; my body (aching clutch foot and all) were in Illinois, but mentally, I was still in Vermont, where my thoughts had turned to pancake breakfasts doused with local maple syrup and steaming mugs of cinnamon-flavored Green Mountain Coffee. As if to bring me back to reality, a shiny Jeep Wrangler suddenly veered off the paved section of road, dropping about six inches into the construction mess, sending up clouds of dirt. It passed a few cars that were stopped, waiting to turn, and then climbed back up and continued on its way.
At least there's someone else among the snooty suburban Chicagoans who's not afraid to get an SUV dirty.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Luxurious like Egyptian cotton
I haven't driven the R8, it must be said, but I'm not in the minority on that. Not many people have driven one, and those who haven't lament it (here's lookin' at you, Jalopnik). I know people who know people, though. I've experienced a ride.
We were amongst a crowd attending a show at Audi of America headquarters when the R8 graced us with its presence. It was a sunny Saturday. Heads turned. Jaws dropped. Mens' pants got a little tighter. I had seen one before, just one, when it was unveiled at NAIAS, but this was an entirely different experience. It was moving, audible, out of the sterile show environment, exciting enough to get over my flash of disappointment at its sheer silverness. Rumor has it they've been built in other colors. Online photos have confirmed this (some of which even originated from sources I trust). I was hoping to see a non-silver R8 with my own eyes. Silver is the new beige. Silver is the Audi standby, yes, but it does this car no favors. Rather than accentuate the contours, it sheaths them. Audi seems to think everything should be drenched in silver. Why don't we slather Scarlett Johansson's breasts and ass with a gallon of Audi silver?
It took several hours for the commotion to wane enough for us to sneak away. Upon receiving my summons from Audi's PR rep, I tossed my bag on the ground (no room for journalists' accoutrements, or anything else, for that matter) and we took off.
Inside, the car is anything but silver; in fact, I couldn't catch a glimpse of the exterior panels at all. The hood isn't visible from the passenger seat. It's deceptively small and toned. Everything within reach is expensive--there are no plebian plastics in the cabin at all. This point is oft-repeated in the press, but it didn't stick with me until I was enveloped in the car's fabrics, soft and sultry, like everything good I've ever read about harems. The seats are plush yet taut, the roof is unnervingly close, the frame is cagelike. Ducking through the door is an acrobatic feat. It would be womblike, if wombs were made of black alcantara. It would be comforting, the place for the best damn catnap I'd ever taken, if the ride wasn't thoroughly stimulating.
I held the brim of my baseball cap as the wind gusted through the tiny windows; the impact on my face was instant, like Superman: Ride of Steel at Six Flags. Onlookers stared. Other drivers yielded. Cameras snapped. My core muscles got a workout bracing my body in the seat while I touched up my lip gloss (a task for which the tiny side mirror was absolutely useless). For the first time in my life, I wished I wore really expensive sunglasses.
The Audi rep attempted to carry on a conversation, and I was quite surprised at how quiet the car runs, aside from the occasional requisite stomp on the gas. I hope he didn't think I was being snobbish, but I know I look ridiculous talking through a grin, and the R8 brought out the worst of my giddiness and my self-consciousness. It's a dangerous combination.
Fair warning: Without a charm school education, it's damn near impossible to make a graceful entrance to or exit from the R8. And there will be an audience, witnessing every stumble and cheesy grin against a backdrop of satiny silver. And did I mention there would be cameras?
I may get an encore encounter with the R8 sometime in the next couple weeks; I am eager to gauge its charisma over a longer period of time. I hope it's not silver, but I've got my credit card ready for those designer shades.
We were amongst a crowd attending a show at Audi of America headquarters when the R8 graced us with its presence. It was a sunny Saturday. Heads turned. Jaws dropped. Mens' pants got a little tighter. I had seen one before, just one, when it was unveiled at NAIAS, but this was an entirely different experience. It was moving, audible, out of the sterile show environment, exciting enough to get over my flash of disappointment at its sheer silverness. Rumor has it they've been built in other colors. Online photos have confirmed this (some of which even originated from sources I trust). I was hoping to see a non-silver R8 with my own eyes. Silver is the new beige. Silver is the Audi standby, yes, but it does this car no favors. Rather than accentuate the contours, it sheaths them. Audi seems to think everything should be drenched in silver. Why don't we slather Scarlett Johansson's breasts and ass with a gallon of Audi silver?
It took several hours for the commotion to wane enough for us to sneak away. Upon receiving my summons from Audi's PR rep, I tossed my bag on the ground (no room for journalists' accoutrements, or anything else, for that matter) and we took off.
Inside, the car is anything but silver; in fact, I couldn't catch a glimpse of the exterior panels at all. The hood isn't visible from the passenger seat. It's deceptively small and toned. Everything within reach is expensive--there are no plebian plastics in the cabin at all. This point is oft-repeated in the press, but it didn't stick with me until I was enveloped in the car's fabrics, soft and sultry, like everything good I've ever read about harems. The seats are plush yet taut, the roof is unnervingly close, the frame is cagelike. Ducking through the door is an acrobatic feat. It would be womblike, if wombs were made of black alcantara. It would be comforting, the place for the best damn catnap I'd ever taken, if the ride wasn't thoroughly stimulating.
I held the brim of my baseball cap as the wind gusted through the tiny windows; the impact on my face was instant, like Superman: Ride of Steel at Six Flags. Onlookers stared. Other drivers yielded. Cameras snapped. My core muscles got a workout bracing my body in the seat while I touched up my lip gloss (a task for which the tiny side mirror was absolutely useless). For the first time in my life, I wished I wore really expensive sunglasses.
The Audi rep attempted to carry on a conversation, and I was quite surprised at how quiet the car runs, aside from the occasional requisite stomp on the gas. I hope he didn't think I was being snobbish, but I know I look ridiculous talking through a grin, and the R8 brought out the worst of my giddiness and my self-consciousness. It's a dangerous combination.
Fair warning: Without a charm school education, it's damn near impossible to make a graceful entrance to or exit from the R8. And there will be an audience, witnessing every stumble and cheesy grin against a backdrop of satiny silver. And did I mention there would be cameras?
I may get an encore encounter with the R8 sometime in the next couple weeks; I am eager to gauge its charisma over a longer period of time. I hope it's not silver, but I've got my credit card ready for those designer shades.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Spare tyres
Today we learned something truly amazing. We learned how a Chinese tyre failed.
We didn't just learn that it failed, or that it delaminated (the usual method of failure for tyres), but that it was missing a critical layer of rubber that absorbed friction between two layers of steel belts and enabled full bonding of the belts into the tyre carcass. We learned the minimum required thickness of the rubber strip, something that would normally be regarded as a trade secret in the industry. We learned about why the strip is there, and why it matters.
Go back to the most recent Firestone fiasco, and if you're old enough, the Firestone 500 fiasco. Did we ever learn why the tyres failed? Did we hear about green adhesion and cure profiles? Did we hear about adhesion promotors and cohesive failures? No. We heard that tyres delaminated and failed. That was it. The mechanisms of failure were proprietary trade secrets and remained that way, impervious to all but those truly skilled in the art of keeping the carcass and tread attached to the belts. While some hints were made in reference to poor green aging conditions and possible rubber compounding errors, the entire industry stuck to the mantra of underinflation and user error, whether on the part of Ford or the end user. In this case of Chinese tyres, there is no question - the Chinese manufacturer is at fault, and in flagrante delicto, as it were. What is the purpose of releasing this information? Why can't I get it from Firestone?
I did some time in the tyre industry, and I'm really curious about the politics of releasing this data to the general public.
We didn't just learn that it failed, or that it delaminated (the usual method of failure for tyres), but that it was missing a critical layer of rubber that absorbed friction between two layers of steel belts and enabled full bonding of the belts into the tyre carcass. We learned the minimum required thickness of the rubber strip, something that would normally be regarded as a trade secret in the industry. We learned about why the strip is there, and why it matters.
Go back to the most recent Firestone fiasco, and if you're old enough, the Firestone 500 fiasco. Did we ever learn why the tyres failed? Did we hear about green adhesion and cure profiles? Did we hear about adhesion promotors and cohesive failures? No. We heard that tyres delaminated and failed. That was it. The mechanisms of failure were proprietary trade secrets and remained that way, impervious to all but those truly skilled in the art of keeping the carcass and tread attached to the belts. While some hints were made in reference to poor green aging conditions and possible rubber compounding errors, the entire industry stuck to the mantra of underinflation and user error, whether on the part of Ford or the end user. In this case of Chinese tyres, there is no question - the Chinese manufacturer is at fault, and in flagrante delicto, as it were. What is the purpose of releasing this information? Why can't I get it from Firestone?
I did some time in the tyre industry, and I'm really curious about the politics of releasing this data to the general public.
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