These car poems will end eventually. In the meantime, well… I just need to get them out of my system. The new still hasn’t worn off, of course (if one can refer to anything approaching age 53 as “new”). I’m still in candy store mode. It might be awhile—at least an entire car show season—for me to come to grips with the fact that I’ve realized a longstanding desire… dare I say “dream?”… and can now savor the having as much as I anxietized over the search and capture.
Jean and I had a ball cruising around town. The seats are easy-chair soft, totally unlike modern car seats. The engine is ridiculously lazy, perfect for a low-and-slow ooze down Main Street. The brakes, brilliant in their day, now require, shall we say, planning. But, cast in finned aluminum, the drums themselves look spectacularly sculptural through the slots in the Rallye wheels. I don’t care what color you paint the calipers—disc brakes just don’t have that look.
Riv was built the year the Beatles made it big in the U.S.A. I therefore dedicate yesterday’s maiden voyage under our banner to the late, great George Martin. May you evermore conduct the music of the spheres.