I had planned on going up to the big SPF event at Dynamic, near Cinn, Ohio, for months. It was great fun last year, and this year looked to be even better. But a week before I was to drive the 500+ miles up, had a prostate biopsy (was fine), causing the last part of this thread’s title. While I was lying on my side in my Doc’s office, I kept thinking that this is where the expression “like shooting fish in a barrel” comes from.”
My wife was really vexed at me for going, she was adamant that it would make things worse, it would be bad, dumb, a poor decision on my part, even used big words like “exacerbate”, but just when she was about to flatly tell me I could not sit in The Great Stroker’s seat for a thousand miles, the phone rang, and one of her girl buddies called to ask if she wanted to go to the beach with them. Immediately, she said “you should go and do that car stuff, be with those guys that like loud motors, …” and promptly went to pack for her weekend at the beach.
Spiffed up the trusty SPF, tossed in some essentials, and early Thursday AM, gave it a shove, and rolled it out the garage and down the driveway, delaying cranking it until was rolling down the street, so as to be charitable to the new baby across the street. Turned the wheel at the driveway, and it gathered speed down the hill, so I made one great surprised leap, making it into the cockpit, and fiddling with the A’sump, and tickling the Pro Holley, got it ignited by the bottom of the hill, and away I went. Up north of Charlotte, met up with Mike S, and Jim F, the former with a aluminum block Windsor sporting 427 CI, the latter with a new Dart running the same CI. Me with my measely 392 CI and skimpy 460 hp, we rolled out, and swung north. With the coming rain, Mike suggested we run north first, then cut across the mountains to the west. Soon, we were running along deserted NC mountain roads, so narrow and so curvy as we climbed the sides of greening Smokies, thundering up the twisting, turning roads, staying mostly in third. At the top of one, we rested, see picture later, then re-belted, and headed down the backside into West VA, me learning how not to overbrake my new NASCAR sized Wilwood Superlites Dennis Olthoff had just installed. Brake fade was not a concern for me.
Across the valley, and up into the next set of clouds, we scampered, one after another, accelerating hard on every short straight. Stopping for burgers, I wanted Bacon on mine, and in a moment, hearing a commotion out back of the woodsided tavern, looked out the screen door and saw the waitress wacking a sow with a stick, and I imagined this is why Carolina bacon is so good, they don’t over-cure it. Got my sizzling burger, gulped it down, hit the head, and once more the Three Muskrateers’ were rolling. Up thru West Va, along rivers, across ridgelines, thru this or that hamlet, and eventually needed gas again, so stopped in a nameless village, and the fuel girl was so excited, she had to run next door for a camera, so we could take her picture by our hot, crackling cars. Saying goodby to Bonnie, we were soon away, but by then I had noted the sad dearth of teeth in that very pretty state.
Way up somewhere north, letting Mike lead, as he can supposedly read a map, turned west, stopping at an eatery, and the manager was out to our cars before we had even gotten out, heard all about his love of Cobra’s. Soon, belly’s full of Guy Food, we ratcheted it up, and as dark fell, with the threatening rain, put the tops up, and several hundred wet miles later, pulled into our destination, the hotel near the Dynamic SPF dealership.
The next day we cruised with 60 SPF’s, getting separated and lost at least twice, me worried because all I had time for gas was a “splash and go” as we say here in SC. Saw several “Welcome to this or that state” signs, being unsure what time zone we were lost in, and running on fumes, got back, then out to a local drag strip, where the damp weather made for slow times, but finally, launching in second, ran 12.7, far off my usual, but the best I could do there. The most slippery dragstrip I have run. But fortunately, I took all my fancy Nomex, hood, gloves, all that stuff, so I kept trying to impress the local drag guys that I was a big hot-shot from back east. Which was hard to do when I lost my pit pass, and had to beg the girl for another; real racers don’t loose their pit passes, she told me.
http://www.clubcobra.com/photopost/u...59/3_spf_s.jpg
Bacon, back roads, and bloody urine
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