Dragon tales

I did it. I did it in a 2002 Golf TDI. I did it with an automatic, which did not enhance the pleasure I experienced. However, neither did it blunt it as much as I thought it would.

I ran the Dragon, otherwise known as US 129 in spite of the few remaining road signs indicating such. I also ran the Hellbender, a section of US 28 that had my kids screaming and my spouse panicking, jabbing mercilessly at the imaginary brake pedal in the passenger footwell. Those twisties added two hours to the transit from Knoxville to Asheville.

Worth the detour? Oh, yes. I would like to do that again. Many times over. In a Miata. With no passengers.

My vacation found me enjoying driving like I haven't in years. Specifically, nearly six years, that being the time I have been away from the twisty, hilly venues of the greater Northeast. I remembered why I loved my 30 minute commute in Philly - the old cart path that had been paved for use by automobiles some time in the 1920s. The ford in the road, the blind turns, the elevation changes that frequently involve full suspension travel. The millstone of our autotragic Diesel was not sufficient to weigh me down on these transits I hold hallowed. A Buick Roadmaster might not have been enough to kill it for me, particularly after four years in Detroit. My sons squealed with delight as we took turn after turn, yelling "rollercoaster!" after every hill summit crested and "tummy funny!" as we came down the backsides, losing our seats and gravity in the process.

The white knuckles my poor spouse endured while I devoured the old roads had me pealing with laughter, reminding him that he was the one who introduced those roads to me so many years ago. Did he expect me not to enjoy the gift he gave me at every chance? I can forgive him the imaginary brake pedal while we descended the Hellbender - he's not a performance driver, and I'd likely be quite white-knuckled if he were driving it, although not for the same reasons. But on the roads he calls home, he should expect some colonial enthusiasm from me.

Those roads the only good reason I have for putting up with "vacation" at his parents' every year.

"Take my pulse and take my picture, I wanna be a household fixture."

There's nothing quite like the rush of seeing my own work published, and it's an experience to which I haven't yet gotten accustomed.

Not quite as exciting, but almost, is browsing through a print magazine and spotting a car with which I am intimate. It happens pretty regularly--honestly, it happens more often than I get published, which is kind of pathetic. Even more pathetic, I know all these cars by sight, or I know the owners, yet it's very rarely my car that's pictured. My GTI was in Performance VW's Reader's Rides, and my dearly departed Audi 4000 was in an advertisement in Eurotuner under its previous ownership. So much for my exciting life.

A couple weekends ago, I was at Barnes & Noble with the honey, on the monthly mission to check out the Euro/VW tuner mag competition. My interest was piqued when I found coverage of Atlanta's DurtyFest, since the show is managed by acquaintances and I am familiar with their cars from both VWvortex and my brief period of Atlanta residency.

In the front and center of the lead photo sat Volkswagen's Thunder Bunny. At first, I was amused that so much attention would be granted to a show car commissioned and owned by a manufacturer, rather than giving the magazine's own consumers' cars precious photo space in a time when the magazine can no longer afford to print the monthly cover car poster insert that used to be included with each issue. It seemed like a weird editorial decision, but that's not my domain--I'm happiest taking my red pen to this particular magazine's copy for fun, not as a means of drawing a paycheck. But I digress--back to the Thunder Bunny.

I've ridden in that car. I've driven that car. And I'm quite fond of it, not only because my own white Rabbit is currently slated to get one of the first Thunder Bunny ground effects kits available (which inspired a series of photographs of the two cars together, one of which currently sits framed in my cubicle).

I like the Thunder Bunny because it's exciting. It's sporty, eye-catching, and most of all, attainable. I'm becoming accustomed to the perks of my fiance's job--we might get tossed the the keys to the R GTI or a new 3 Series for a weekend, or get chauffered around in an R8 for few precious stolen minutes--and even though we have the privilege of zipping around on a free tank of gas and showing off, the car, in the end, must go back. It's never ours and never will be.

But the Thunder Bunny's different. Although the production kit won't include the one-of-a-kind pearl white body graphics or custom interior bits, it's still within my grasp. It fuels my thirst to once again daily-drive a modified car. And standing in a bookstore in Chicago, admiring a picture of the Thunder Bunny amongst a crowd of enthusiast-owned cars in Atlanta, felt like I was seeing an old friend.

"Whatever happened to Suburban Rhythm?"

(A big thumbs-up to whoever gets the title reference.)

In anticipation of our rent increasing when our lease is up in January, we have been discussing relocation.

We'd like to stay where we are--the town is cute and generally pleasant, and our apartment building is clean, quiet, and reasonably well-managed. But things bother us, like the privilege of paying $120 per month to park in a town-owned parking garage that is overrun with crazed commuters racing to the train station, and paying stupid fines to the revenue department simply because the State of Wisconsin couldn't be bothered to send our registration in a timely manner. Things could be much worse, but they could also be better. If our rent goes up considerably more, well, that's the equivalent of a mortgage payment.

The search is currently focused on the towns near the VMG office. We did, however, spend the July 4 holiday cruising the Chicago River and Lake Michigan waterfront, which raised the question: Why don't we live here?

The answer is simple: We'd have virtually no choice but to abandon car ownership. And as much as I'd love to be a short walk or train ride from everything, well, I don't know how I'd cope without a vehicle to call my own.

Simple, said Wes: Parking spots are available in condo parking garages, to the tune of $30,000. If I've simply got to have one, it can be rolled into the mortgage and could be sold fairly easily if ever necessary.

Which has got me thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts. Do I spend that kind of money--enough to get me out from under my Rabbit and pay off my student loans--for the luxury of keeping a 16-year-old VW Golf (fairly) safe and (fairly) sound in downtown Chicago, especially knowing damn well that I'd never, ever drive the car except to attend shows a couple of times a year? By comparison, the estimated 12 grand or so I've spent on maintenance and modifications over the past four years seems almost sane.

The car-free life appeals to me, at least while I'm admiring those glorious lakefront condos from the bow of Matt's boat. I could walk a lot, which I enjoy, and splurge on a decent bike. In practice, though, I'm not convinced it's plausible.

More on this topic in the future, I'm sure.

Lists

When you go on a road trip, you should bring a few certain things with you. Like credit cards, a cell phone, some maps (or a GPS if you are of that persuasion), and probably most importanly, your driver's license.

My purse is at home, snuggled up somewhere, relaxing. I have my maps.

I packed everything else. I was running around trying to remember the little stuff that my spouse would whine about if I forgot it. Somehow, I managed to forget the important stuff. Urgh.

Oh well, at least I won't get lost. And he does have a credit card and a phone. And a driver's license. Hope for me that I don't get pulled over on the Tail of the Dragon. I came all this way to drive it, and I'm going to, license in hand or not.

Big Black Lincoln

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Those who cannot remember the past....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A head-turner

I am fascinated by Natalie Neff, road test editor at AutoWeek, and have been ever since I saw her running around at NAIAS '07. I was in a suit and heels, as I had been for two straight days, and was worn down from trying to make a good impression on everyone I met. Along came Ms. Neff, who was climbing in and around all the cars... dressed comfortably. I admired her ballsiness, and yeah, I was jealous.

Since then, I've been a regular reader of her column. Some I like, some I don't like. I thought this week's was worth pointing out.

I'm judgmental

Let's discuss biases, shall we?

I have a mere 15-mile commute from work. It takes me an hour to get home, despite the fact that I sneak out of the office at 3:59 pm and am on the road at 4:05 at the absolute latest. When I arrive home, I park my car in the municipal garage attached to my apartment, which is shared with train commuters during the workweek. Those commuters are fighting to get down as I'm fighting to get up, and since I care about my car more than they care about theirs, I am usually the one to defer.

15 miles of stop-and-go, knowing it will end with this daily battle, puts me in something of a nasty mood from the start.

I am prone to road rage, but what concerns me is the road rage is highly dependent upon the type of vehicle involved. If I'm cut off by something "neutral" (say, a Jeep Cherokee) my yell is something along the lines of, "Get out of my way, bonehead." If I'm cut off by something more offensive, it becomes, "Get your effing ugly-ass Daewoo out of my way, you cheap, miserable, style-less son of a bitch."

Accurate, but still a cause for concern.

Commuting in Chicagoland's going to be the death of me.

Welcome!

Welcome to Vanity Plate, the observations and musings of two women whose lives, for better or for worse, revolve around the auto industry. That's how we met, where we work, where we play, and we can't escape it long enough to blog about anything else.

Although we are both published freelance writers, Vanity Plate was born out of a need for more, to write what we want, when we want, without depending on the needs and whims of existing publications.

We'll be moving this blog to our own URL in the near future, but for now, enjoy.