Harry tooled down the road at ever increasing speed, double clutching the bull gear and pressing the gas pedal (yes, like a flower between the pages of a book) gently, with his powerful hairy toes, until the hum of the Michelin retreads told his clean but hirsute ears that he was cruisin’ at 95 kliks.
Perhaps, you were thinking, that Betsy was a Canadian made bucket of bolts, eh? Well, I ask you, does everything have to be automatic? Clearly, Betsy is no hot-wired hot rod hot-footing it down the hardtop. NAH, nah, nah. Her cadmium transmission meshed with an affinity greater than Crest and dental enamel. The cadence of her mighty power plant fell on Harry’s pink, yet shapely ears sweeter than violins, more melodic than Eine Kline Notch music, more gut wrenching than the Musak played on the Revenue Canada hot line on April 30th.
Nor is Harry a nut behind the wheel! He had been there, done that, measured uncharted seas in the Arctic, and from a helicopter, fought black flies in the bush; sweated in the army and loafed in the Caribbean, biked in Utah’s vast desert. He had wandered the Italian Riviera with nothing between him and terminal pollution, (e.g. regurgitated pink ice cream), except a plaid blanket! More importantly, he had learned to handle an 18-wheel drift at Jackie Robinson’s knee. (Indy ’78)
Now, you may ask, why is Harry down on the floor boards looking at his knees? Well,in a skid a 400 MPH.....you might find yourself there too!
To be continued…
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