It’s 9:00 am and I’m full of pancakes. The rain is falling heavily on this particular late September morning, but not on me. There’s nothing on TV that I haven’t seen a dozen times already. I take another look outside and realize that today would be a perfect day for a drive. I return to the sanctity of my room to prepare for the adventure. I’m 9 years old, you see, and anything is possible.
I deftly arrange the covers of my bed into an infinite landscape that strains to contain my vision. Above me, hung by mono-filament, WWII aircraft in mock battle fight for space among Gemini and Apollo rockets. I pull my 24-car Matchbox case from beneath the bed, open it, and present its eager contents with the usual. Their mission, and they will choose it, is to survive until lunch.
It’s sunny and warm, a fine day to stretch the legs of my ’68 Porsche 910—yes, a very fine day. The engine springs to life and is quickly begging to be flogged right up to redline and above. I happily oblige. It isn’t too long before I encounter some local traffic—apparently a newcomer to the area since everyone here knows I use both sides of the road. VW buses really shouldn’t be allowed out of the city.
Five hill climbs, six laps of Blanketburgring, and eight rollovers later (the 910 miraculously surviving), I’m forced to slide to a squealing halt, my reverie interrupted by a road-blocking accident between a grit spreader and a greyhound bus. It’s not a pretty scene, and I can hear the fire truck coming. If I hurry I can make it back to that side road I saw a few hundred yards back. Oh man, it’s gravel. I should have brought the Jeep.
Gravel spraying, I launch the 910 up into the unknown. And who do I meet at the top, but my nemesis, sporting his new ride—a VW Dragon. Now that horrible accident doesn’t seem very random. Well, Mr. I’ve-stuffed-a-supercharged-V8-into-the-back-of-a-VW-bug-just-to-mess-with-you-on-the-top-of-this-mountain Jerk, I’ve been busy in my garage, too.
The Dragon, flames coming out the exhaust, hurls itself in my direction on this lonely, one-lane service road. It misses completely, sending Mr. Jerk and his VW that can’t levitate plummeting off a cliff to their respective dooms. Obviously, he still has no respect for my mechanical abilities, or my vast knowledge of science. As the dust settles, my future becomes quite clear. Smells like . . . tomato soup and a toasted cheese sandwich. I better go check.
Scott “Leadfoot” Miller
So that’s how the blankets got snagged: Tire damage.