All I was doing was walking up the street to get a sandwich and do my obligatory 2 km circuit around the dreary confines of St Leonards/Crows Nest where I work.
She was there with her snout out, silver perfection, sleek lines. Low and squat, wide wheels and a profile that screams speed. A rag top, no less.
I’ve always wanted a rag top. At high school, when I had hair, I dreamed about squirting around the Old Swamp Road in Jamberoo in a convertible. Taking the twisties to Kiama after a nice lunch at Jamberoo Pub. I was in my dad’s boxy, understeer prone HQ Holden stationwagon but I dreamed about being in a slick little Austin Healy or classic MG.
Today I was transported to that time. The time machine was a Porsche Boxster 986 looking alluring at a used car lot up the road. A 2001 model with only 56,000 km on the clock — brand bloody new, hardly run-in. The rag top was immaculate, pristine. The grinning car salesman (Alan) sidled up and asked me if I wanted to start her up. Bastard, evil, evil bastard.
I weakened: yep, I’d love to. He got the keys and I cranked the engine. It hesitated and spluttered as the barely charged battery eked out its last amperage to kick the motor into life. But it did start; a low throbbing pulse from behind the seats. I had the clutch in and ran through the box. Snick, into first, snick, into second, snick into third, slide into neutral. Throb, throb, throb in the back, as the engine idled.
Man, that car felt and sounded so good.
Young Alan gave me his card and a print out of the Porsche’s specs, asking me to come back any time and maybe bring the wife.
I gritted my teeth, thanked him and trundled off up the hill, where I spent my lunch money on a Powerball lottery ticket. Alan, you smirking bastard, if my numbers come up on Thursday night, you are going to be the first bloke I see Friday morning.
Fingers crossed.
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I really enjoyed this story of you that at high school, when I had hair, I dreamed about squirting around the Old Swamp Road in Jamberoo in a convertible. Taking the twisties to Kiama after a nice lunch at Jamberoo Pub. I was in my dad’s boxy, understeer prone HQ Holden stationwagon but I dreamed about being in a slick little Austin Healy or classic MG.