BlitzBlog

“You’re going to Ohio for what?” it seemed everybody asked. You’d think that with my history of traveling for pleasure to places like Mississippi in August, people would be less surprised by Ohio in October.

But no, I had to explain myself.

“The a teen defensive driving class I’m taking my son to.”

The follow-up was always, “Aren’t there any closer to home?” Okay, if there was one closer, dontcha think I’d be going to it? Duh! But no, I’d explain, there are only classroom courses offered locally, and while yes, I could get the same insurance discount from those classroom courses, I don’t think they have the same value as an actual course behind the wheel.

As I posited to my friend Petunia, an expert horse-woman, as we returned from a riding lesson, “If I sit in a classroom and take a 4 hour horse riding lesson, and you take a 6-hour riding lesson on a horse, which one of us will be a better rider?”

So in Friday morning, Zac and I left for the 8+ hour drive from home to Mid-Ohio Raceway in Lexington Ohio. The ride, mostly on Route 80, was uneventful and we arrived at the Comfort Inn and then went to dinner at the cavernous Amish Country Inn next door.

We awoke early the next morning for the 10 minute ride to the track, We checked in and waiting in the classroom in the control tower of Mid-Ohio Raceway. Mid Ohio is an historic track- one of the premier road courses in the country, and a pretty track at that. The school runs this particular course- called the Honda Teen Defensive Driving Course- in one of the side paddock area (basically a big open parking lot). Sorry- no race track time for these teens (or me- as my insurance company informed me I’d also receive a discount for attending the school, and this particular weekend was a 2-for-1 deal, so I was also a student). The track itself was being used for a BMW club event, so our perch in the tower afforded us a nice view of the cars as they sped by us on the main straight.

At 9am, Dave Roush introduced himself, and began a discussion of car control, mainly the behavior of tires under various conditions like braking, accelerating, turning, etc. After about an hour discussing the theory of weight transfer between tire contact patches, we were led out to the paddock for some practical application.

The paddock was filled with about 20 new Honda Civic Coupes. Our class was split into 3 sections, each heading for one of the 3 areas that we’d rotate through. Zac and I went over to the slalom and lane-change area, where we all took turns being put through the cone course. The first exercise, the Slalom, which our instructor, Tom, led us through, was a series of 5 cones set about 40 feet apart. We’d slalom the cones a quickly as possible, getting the feel for the car under hard transition conditions. This “loosened us up” and got our elbows flying, showing the students how to work the wheel vigorously to avoid obstacles. Basically this was an exercise set up to drive out the fear (literally) of the car skidding or rolling out of control. From there, we progressed to the Lane-Change exercise. This was a set of cones, laid out to demarcate 3 lanes. The 3 lanes were split into tow sections, each about 50 feet long. There were 3 lights set up (red/green) at the end of the course, aligned with each lane. As we drove through the center lane of the first section, one of the lights would change, and we would quickly shift to that lane.  Zac became known as King Cone Killer, as he repeatedly tried to anticipate which lane he’d have to shift to, and would invariably guess wrong and then try to switch back. It got to be hilarious after a while. In the end, it was an exercise in reacting to stimulae, which in The Real World, Zac would never be able to anticipate. For him it was not so much a read-and-react exercise, as a how-quickly-will-the-car-turn exercise.

On to the next exercise- Wet Braking. A short run, maybe 40 yards, into a lane of cones 20 yards long with a 45-degree turn at the end. The tarmac in the braking area was wetted down and we were told to accelerate hard out of the start, then full brake in the cone lane, and turn to avoid the cones in the turn at the end. Virtually all of us had no problem with this, as all the cars were equipped with ABS (Anti-lock Braking Systems). After 3 runs or so, the instructor (Dave, now) reached into the glove box and flipped a switch, disabling the ABS. Now, as the cars hit the water, they locked their wheels and skidded straight through the cones at the turn. Dave then explained the p[roper brakign technique, feathering the brake pedal from full on, so that the wheels released and were able to turn the car as they braked and rolled simultaneously (exactly what ABS does, only faster). This exercise was valuable in teaching a disappearing skill, as more and more cars come equipped with ABS, but it is one that should still be mastered, as there are still plenty of cars that are not so equipped.

After this, it was a quick lunch, and then some more classroom time, discussing in-car distractions- cell-phones, radio, ipods, texting, GPS, friends, pets. The ugly statistics: 1 of 3 teens have an accident in their first year of driving. Add a cell phone, odds of an accident go up 500%. Add a friend, double, 2 friends. triple. 3 friends, 10x more likely to get into an accident. Basically, the more distractions, the more likely an untoward event. Obvious to everyone. But it rarely changes teen behavior.

After an hour, it was back out to the paddock, and our turn in “The Skid Car.”  This is a Civic with a set of outriggers attached to the suspension. On each outrigger is a hydraulically actuated caster-type wheel that can spin in any direction. The hydraulics can vary the amount of weight each corner of the car loads on each tire, so driving car is very much like driving on ice. We took tunrs- each driving bout 10 minutes, in the car with former Formula One driver Tony Hill, who instucted us on feeding in the gas ever-so-slowly and smoothly to keep the car headed in the direction we wanted. We guided the car aorund a small course painted on the tarmac, often in full oposite lock, learning how to control the car in a skid, learning to keep our eyes in the direction we want the car to go. Very instructive.

At the end of the day, we were all given our diplomas, with the warning to use our newfound powers only for Good, and not Evil. That we wre all now more skilled than 95% of all the drivers on the road.

While I can’t speak for the percentages, I do know that this course will have been worth every penny if Zac, when (and I do say when) he is at the wheel of a car that is beginning to lose its grip on the road, that he isn’t automatically propelled into Teen-Panic Mode, and is able to keep his wits about him and safely get the car back under control, or at least minimize the damage or carnage in an unavoidable encounter. I recommend this course to all parents.

We said our goodbyes, and headed for the next stop on our Tour of Ohio: the Big C- Cleveland!

See next post for details…

When I was about 17 and and a half, I’d been borrowing my mom’s 6+ year old Mercury Montego enough to cause her to consider buying a new car. She decided on a new Chrysler Volaré because she loved the Dean Martin song (Vo-LAR-ay!) in the commercials. As a young 17 year old kid, I didn’t care what she bought, as I’d be able to buy the Montego for whatever the dealer would offer in trade. (BTW, my parents were divorced, so my dad does not figure in this story).

She came home with the cream-colored Volaré coupe with its wheezing Super Slant Six, proud and happy, one fine October day, from Teterboro Chrysler. I believe it cost about $4500. For the next month the car was just fine. Mom was happy, I was happy. Life was Good.

We brought the car in for it’s 1000-mile service in early December. Late in the day, my mom received a call from the dealership. “Uh, Mrs. Blitz, the mechanic was road testing your car this afternoon, and he got caught on a patch of ice and got into a fender bender with your car. But don’t worry, we can fix it up, good as new, and we’ll give you a loaner for a few days while it’s being repaired.”

We drove to the dealership to get the loaner. They weren’t too keen to let us see the mom’s car, and I slipped out of the showroom and walked around back of the dealership. It was there I saw Mom’s car, which even with my untrained eyes, I could see this was no mere fender bender. The car looked totaled.

I ran back to the showroom and told my mom to come see the car. The showroom manager was none too pleased, but he followed us out the door.

“A ‘fender bender’?!” my mom exclaimed.

“Er, well, as I said, the mechanic got caught on some ice and rear ended a truck.”

I asked, “Did the mechanic LIVE?”  I wasn’t being a wise guy. The car’s hood and front end were pushed in about a foot, the windshield was cracked, and I pictured blood all over the dash (there wasn’t).

“He’ll be fine. Just a bit shaken up.”

We both stated our doubts about being able to fix this; that the car looked totaled to us, and we weren’t sure the repairs would ever make the car whole again. The manager assured us that they were experts with these cars, and we’d have it back in a few days a week, tops.

We drove home in a turd-brown 4-door Volaré loaner.

After a week, and no word from the dealership, Mom called them. She was told it’d be another week, and not to worry.

Another week went by, and the same story.

So now it was time for the 17-year old to start using the loaner car, and having his way with it. Did you know that transmissions make Real Bad Noises when you throw them into reverse at highway speed?

After 5 weeks, we finally got the Mom’s car back. It looked good as new, and we drove off with hope in our hearts.

On the second day, the car stalled on Mom’s way to work and had to be towed to the dealer. Two days in the shop, and it was returned to us.

On the third day, it died again, stranding Mom near the Lincoln Tunnel.

Another night in the shop, and the car was returned to us.

Again the car soon died, stranding us. We took a cab home, retrieved my Montego, and drove to the dealership. My mother flung the Volaré’s keys on the manager’s desk and said, “This car has stranded me three times in three weeks. It will never be fixed right, and I do not feel safe driving it anywhere. I want a new car.”

“Well Mrs. Blitz, be reasonable, the car had a thousand mile on it when you brought it in. We can’t just give you a new car.”

“Well, I don’t want it.” and at that, we left the dealership.

The next day, they called to say the repairs were made and we could pick it up anytime. Mom replied, saying she didn’t want the car anymore, and that she wasn’t making any more payments on it, and they could have it back.

She spent the next days calling lawyers and whoever would listen, trying to get leverage on the dealership. This was before Lemon Laws came into effect, so her recourse was virtually nil. After a week or so trying to get lawyers to take her case or her story in the local papers- fruitless, as Teterboro Chrysler was a big advertiser, we drove dejectedly to the dealership and took possession of the VoLemon.

We needed a new angle on how to get the dealership to budge.  If the newspapers wouldn’t help, we’d do our own advertising.

On the way home, we stopped and bought some clear plastic sheeting and colored vinyl tape. Once home, we applied the plastic to the car, and started affixing the tape as signage all over the car.

“THIS CAR IS A LEMON”

“BUY AND CRY AT TETERBORO CHRYSLER”

“WANT HEADACHES? BUY A VOLARE!”

Mom typed up the story of the car and taped it into the windows. We then drove the car around, back and forth on Route 46 in front of the dealership. We stopped to eat at the Burger King across the street. The car gathered a lot of attention, to the point where after a few days, someone from the dealership asked the manager of the Burger King to not allow us to park there. Unfortunately (for them) the BK manager had read our story, and we sat with him over some Whoppers, and he sympathized with our plight. He said he admired my mom’s feistyness.  So when the dealership asked that he not allow us to park on his property, he told them that not only were we welcome to park, right in front under the BK sign , but that none of the mechanics from the dealership were allowed in his restaurant until they made us whole again.

After about a week, with no real progress, my mom’s friend Matty Larusso had an idea.

Matty and I went in to the dealership. I’d shaved my beard, so as not to be recognized.  Matty and I posed as father and son. The story was that Matty was gonna buy himself a nice, fully loaded top-of-the-line Chrysler Newport, and he was buying his son (me) a hot new Roadrunner with all the bells and whistles.  He’s paying cash, he’s paying full bust-out sticker with no haggling, and he wants the cars right away! And throw in the undercoating and deeeeluxe floor mats too!

After an hour or so of adding options and watching the salesman’s and manager’s eyes glaze with delight, they brought out the paperwork. If I recall, the two cars together came to almost $13,000. A fortune in 1977. I could see Matty stalling, looking out the front window of the dealership.  Finally, as he was about to sign on the dotted line, my mom drove by in the sign-bedecked VoLemon.

“”What’s THAT?” Matty asked.

“Oh, that?” the manager stumbled. “That’s just some crazy woman who’s not happy with her car.”

“Really?” Matty asked.

“Yes, we’ve tried to help her but she’s asking for a new car for free. It’s a long story.”

With that, Matty slowly placed the pen down in front of the manager. “I think I’d like to hear that story before I buy anything here.” He turned to me, “C’mon son, let’s go talk to that woman and see if this is a place we want to do business with.” And with that we walked out, the manager’s and salesman’s jaws on their chests.

The phone was ringing when we got home that evening.

“Mrs. Blitz, we’d like you to come in and talk about what we can do about your situation.”

Ultimately, we told them that the chance for them to ‘make it right’ was way passed, and that we weren’t interested in a replacement from them. We wanted a full refund of the price of the car. Amazingly, they settled for the full price, minus the 3 months payments we’d made. About $4200 I believe.

The next day, Mom bought a Chevy Malibu.

And never listened to that damn song again.

All showered up and ready to sweat! It’s Blues Jam at Ground Zero, and we’re gonna go git some dinner and then listen to some old friends play da Blues.

There’s a new restaurant in Clarksdale, opened only a few months ago, that we decided to check out for dinner. It’s in the restored train station, called, appropriately enough, The Depot. It’s about 100 yards from the Main Stage for the festival and 200 from ground Zero, so it’ll be convenient to stagger out of once we’re all in our BBQ stupors in a few hours.

So we walk in and are greeted and sat immediately. The place is about half full, and the wait staff starts busting my chops about the orange souvenir shirt I’m wearing that says “New Orleans County Jail” on it. “We’re gonna call the po-leece on you if ya’ll don’t behave.” What me? “I swear it’s a souvenir!” I answer, but one of Clarksdale’s finest happens to be behind me, and I throw up my hands in mock surrender. During this time, we see the manager of our hotel, Dan, standing by the entryway, so we invite him over to join us. Dan has been managing the Comfort Inn for about 8 months, having moved here from Washington. He’s a smart, friendly guy who’s getting to know the local culture and history, and seems to be enjoying his new hometown. We spend dinner with him, with us each getting each other’s take on Clarksdale.

At some point, Dezie, our hostess starts rummaging through a box in the office, which happens to be have it’s open door right near our table. I see she’s got Depot t-shirts, and she offers one up and asks if we want to buy one. I jump at it, and she throws me an XL. She asks blue Frog if he wants one, but he declines, stating he “can’t wear white t-shirts because I end to get food on ‘em.” He asks if they come in any colors, but no, replies Dezie, they only have white. The other hostess, Carrie comes over and takes our table’s picture, and then mine, as unbeknownst to me when I bought it, turns out I’m the first t-shirt buyer they’ve had. She then starts asking if we think they’d sell more if they had colors and we all agree they probably would. The staff all have bright orange Depot t-shirts, and I ask whether they have more of them. She says they do, but only for staff. I argue (in my New York-friendliest way) with her that as the first buyer of one of their t-shirts, I should be able to get an exclusive deal on an orange one. I even point out that it’ll go with my prison-issue duds. She smiles and goes to get me an orange one, with the proviso that I wear it around town this weekend. I agree and I’m now the exclusive non-staff owner of a bonifide Depot Restaurant of Clarksdale orange t-shirt. (And it’s my ugly mug you see on their site hawking the shirts!)

Our food was delivered- Po’ Boys and catfish and steaks- all dee-lish. Charlie Ledbetter, the owner, stops by our table for small talk and to find out how our meal is. We’re getting ready to head out, and we’re taking pictures of Dezzi and Carrie, Charlie’s daughter and they start fussing about the photo, and I make a statement that i can Photoshop them to however they’d like to look. Dezie replies, “You know how to do that stuff?”  I tel he that I can do “that stuff” in my sleep. She grabs my sleeve and pulls me into the office ad starts looking through the desk drawers. She pulls out an envelope with some old 3×5 black-and-white photographs of the train station from what looks like somewhere between 1930-1960.  She asks me if I can “fix these up and make ‘em bigger?”  I say that sure I can do this for her, but I’m shocked that she’s asking me, as she hardly knows me, and she’s trusting me with what are obviously one-of-a-kind heirlooms.  Such is the type of folks one meets in Clarksdale. Genuinely friendly, kind and trusting.  We swap personal information, and I promise her that I’ll take care of the pictures and will scan them, fix them up,  and print them out and send them all back to her in a few weeks. She’s happy she’s found someone who’ll do the job for free, and she doesn’t seem fazed by giving them to someone she’s just met, who lives 1500 miles away. I am touched my her trust.

Been home a week now, and I’ll start working on them soon. I aim to keep that trust.

We head over to Ground Zero for an open blues jam. Almost immediately after walking in, we start seeing “old friends.” I say this because, as The Mighty Blue Frog has writ in his BlitzBlog entries, the people in This Special Place really do treat us like old friends. We see our young friend Dub, who bear hugs us all in greeting. We see Big-T, Lala, Mr. Tater and co-owner Bill Luckett, all who greet us like we’re being welcomed home for Thanksgiving dinner. It is  heartwarming and brings a true smile to my face. We see familiar faces from last year like young Jacqueline and even-younger Omar.

The music starts off with Guitar Mikey, with whom Blue Frog played in front of Bluestown Music last year.

Blue Frog and Guitar Mikey jam in front of Bluestown Music. Bal’more meets The Great White North.

I didn’t even recognize Mikey as the same person, not because of his appearance, but because of his guitar virtuosity. From my hazy memory, it seems as though his guitar ability has increased exponentially. I recall enjoying watching him last year, thinking he was pretty dern good, but watching him now…well, he was amazing! He’d said last year he was moving to Clarksdale from his native Canada (via both Boston and Chicago) and man, the year spent in the Delta seems to have transformed him. Guitar Mikey now has a stage presence and skills I hadn’t seen a year ago.

With Mikey hosting, we watched a rotating procession of locals, like Mr. Tater, who got everybody up and dancing with a couple of songs. Tater exudes such a joy on stage that is infectious and just makes you smile and dance. While sure, you’ll never understand a word of the lyrics, you just can’t help but love Tater. (As he ascended the stage, I said “Ten bucks for whoever gets the most lyrics!” and Big-T who was standing nearby about fell over laughing.)

Soon after, our pal Dub got up and sang Tracy Chapman’s “Gimme One Good Reason” with a rockin’ blues bent that I remember falling head over heels for last year.

Next up was Nellie Tiger Travis, whose powerful voice and stage presence just brought the house down with Etta James’ I’d Rather Go Blind, with one of those drop-the-mike-and-walk-off-the-stage “WOW” moments.

We couldn’t get enough of her, and later in the evening, we chatted Nellie and her manger/friend Dorothy up on the front porch of the club, and they both couldn’t have turned out to be nicer, more real, more charming folks. No star-divas here in Clarksdale. (and keep in mind, this is a woman who’d brought a 15,000 seat crowd to their feet at Chicago’s blues fest a few weeks earlier). We knew we’d be talking to Nellie and Dorothy throughout the weekend. More friends made.

By then it was about 1 o’clock and  we figured if we we’re gonna make it awake for or breakfast, we’d better head back to the motel, where of course, we gathered in Blue Frog’s room to shoot the breeze and plan our carousing for tomorrow.

Sometimes Good Things happen because of Bad Things.

Bad Thing: My son is going in to the hospital shortly for some major
surgery on his legs. His recovery will probably take 12-18 months.

Good Thing:  Because of this, my wife thinks I need a new car.

Not that I'm in any way even remotely happy that my son (and our
family) will be going through a tough year ahead, but any time I'm on
the hunt for my next ride is a good time for me. I even enjoyed the
search, oh-so-long-ago, when my wife was pregnant with our boy, when I
was even shopping minivans. (Luckily we never bought one).

My automotive ownership history has always been a mix of pragmatism and
lust. Sometimes the needle edges towards one or the other, but both
have nonetheless, been the main factors in my purchase decisions.

My Automotive Nadir (meaning The Worst Car I Ever Owned) ironically
came at the same time that I was working at a car magazine publisher.
It was a fun job. I got to drive all kinds of the latest cool cars.
Days at the drag strip testing. Driving beautifully curvaceous roads in
high-priced sports cars that I could never afford. And yeah,
photographing scantily clad honeys smiling seductively as they posed
next to the cars.

Since I was able to get my Fun-Car Jones out at work, I reasoned that
I would lean towards the Practical when I bought a new 1992 Mercury
Sable. That, and the wife was 5 months preggo, so I decided a Safe
Reliable Family Sedan was the best way to go.

And yeah, the Sable was safe. It was also boring. The problem, though,
was that after the warranty ran out, it ceased to be reliable. It
needed two head-gaskets replaced in the 80,000 mile I owned it, and
with he labor and head-work, they came to a total of $2000.
Subsequently, Ford was subject to a class-action lawsuit regarding the
3.8 liter V6 that powered that stinking steaming pile of shit. I was sweating it out right up to the
final drive to the dealership when I finally traded it in, hoping it
wouldn't explode on the way. I was never so glad to be rid
of a car as that 4-wheeled snooze mobile.

On the other end of the spectrum was my beloved WeisserBlitz-
a '92 Mercedes 400E that was The Absolute Best Car I Ever Owned. I've
written my ode to this car in another blog post (Soul Mates of Steel)
so I won't bore you all again.

But what I will tell you is
that I'm hoping to replicate the good experience I had with that used
Mercedes, and am looking for another. My Audi TT is just too small
(bought in a fit when the meter was pointing more towards the Lust side
of the meter) for my family needs when my son returns home from the
hospital.

I'm doing my due-diligence and research. I'm scanning the online ads-
ebay, autotrader, etc. I've rejoined the wonderful Mercedes chat list
that for my previous ownership period, was a great source of
information, camaraderie, and friendship. I've got a few possibilities
on the hook, and now all I need to do is to sell my TT.

It's been a fun little car to own. And despite the fact that in the 1.5
years I've owned it, it's the only car I've owned in 25 years that's
left me stranded (twice), I have
enjoyed it. I love the looks of the car. I love it's nimbleness. I love
that it gets 30 miles per gallon. And in many ways it really is
practical. It's a hatchback so I can do a family-load of
groceries with ease. When I put the vestigial back seat flat, I can
even get half a dozen 8' 2×4s in it. But that back seat….well, there
is a warning in the manual that says that nobody over 4'11″ should
actually attempt to sit back there. My daughter, who's approaching that
height, already complains when one of the 2 or 3 times a month she's
forced back there because I have to take both kids in the car. 
And the only way she fits is for my son to slide the front seat almost
all the way forward- something he won't be able to do once he's got he
pins and external fixators on.

So The Hunt resumes. Stay tuned.

Generally speaking, many people go through Life looking for their Soul
Mate. Being lucky enough to be married to mine, my thoughts have me
looking for other things.

Well, actually one thing. My Car Soul Mate.

See I believe that for most people, there is that one car that defines
their persona. A car that can give comfort or enjoyment, fulfillment
even. The equivalent of Automotive Ecstasy.

Much as with love, there are many questions to ponder when searching
for one's Car Soul Mate. I will try to illustrate some comparisons.

Do I like blonds or brunettes? What color car do I like?

Do I like tall, thin women (or men)? Or do I like a little “meat on
their bones?” Do I like fun roadsters or do I like musclecars?

Do I like an outgoing personality, or someone more serious? Would I
rather have a something that can spin it's wheels, or something
reliable?

Of course, these are just some of the many questions one would need to
have honestly answered in the quest for one's Car Soul Mate. And, just
as with love, sometimes we find what we think we want, only to realize
we want something completely different. Ce L'Amour.

Keep in mind that we are not talking about Automotive Stereotypes here.
I'm not referring to my left wing commie Mother-in-law who drives a
new VW Beetle, or my hardware store owning, EMT buddy with his pickup
truck. These are easy references that anyone who saw the movie “Cars”
could relate to.

No, here, we are talking about love.

About Carma.

In the 30 years or so that I've had a drivers' license, I've owned 14
cars. Not a vast count by any stretch. Probably on the low side for a
self-proclaimed Car Guy. Of those 14, I think I might have meant to own two. These Two are The Ones That Got Away. The automotive equivalent of the girl you sometimes wonder whether you shouldn't have broken up with.

The first of my Two was the Beast. The Beast was a a 1979 Chevy K5
Blazer. Red with white sides and roof.  I bought it when i was 19.
I put almost every penny I made into it. I bought it things. Things
that made it pretty. Things that made it sing. Things that made it go
faster and drink more gas. I almost killed a thief whom I'd caught
breaking into it one night in the parking lot at college. I loved
that truck, and it took me and many friends on many adventures for the
3 years I owned it. While I was, at the time I sold it, happy to be rid
of it, I still look back fondly and wonder what if…

Almost 20 years later, I bought the second of my Two- WeisserBlitz,
which means white lightning. WeisserBlitz was a 1992 Mercedes Benz
400E. It was blindingly white, with a light gray leather interior. I
bought it from a used-car dealer named Mohammed in Jamaica, Queens
(NY). The dealership was everything common sense tells you that you
should run from. It was one of those 50-foot wide parking lots crammed
with 5 rows of cars, with fluttering plastic flags out front, and a
Rottweiler and a cruddy trailer office at the back.

But I checked the car eight ways from Sunday, even speaking
(unbeknownst to Mohammed) to the previous owner and her mechanic, who
told me
how well she'd treated it. The price was perfect and I fell in love
very quickly. I kept my heart at bay at first, waiting for something
bad to break on this expensive European luxury sedan, but over time,
the car just kept humming. Only normal upkeep was required, and even
the parts weren't as expensive as I'd feared.

As my trepidation faded, my appreciation for the car grew. It rode like
a dream. It handled like a car half its size. It was fast and it looked
almost brand new. I used to love telling people that it had 200,000
miles on it, that it was 9+ years old. It was always a kick to see
their surprise, most saying something to effect of that they thought it
was almost new. (One of the nicer thing about Mercedes is that their
styling is so evolutionary that most people can't tell a new one from a
10-year old model). But alas, all things must come to an end. With
227,000 miles on her, I sold WeisserBlitz to a loving guy in Oklahoma,
where I know she will be cared for.

While it was the right thing to do and the right time to part, I will
always miss her.
So now, for me, I've moved on to my present ride. While I do enjoy my
lil' red Audi TT, I don't feel emotionally connected to it. Yes, I like
driving it. I love its looks and the looks that it gets. But there's
something….not there.
Maybe it's just too soon after the Mercedes. Like being the first date
after a long relationship breakup. Maybe there'll be another Car Soul
Mate for me down the road. Who knows? Sigh.
Maybe I'll give that guy in Oklahoma a call…..