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The Mug page 2 |
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COMPETITION BIT Translated from the English by Mort Lux "Yeah, Pops, I've got an M.G and I know a cat named Jim Conner, but he's an Irishman with a hydro Ford so don't try to hype me." "I'm wise that you can gear down till the box falls out and drift till your eyeballs click, but you still can't swing me." Then some cat jingles you and does "Spy, Cool Breeze, how 'bout the rally scene?" Well, it's an off weekend -- Thelonius is out of town and the Salvation Army is blowing a gig on Staten Island so it figures to make this rally rumble. Well man, needless to say, it's twelve below zero, your chick can't make the instructions, the tick is frozen, and you accidentally drop the scotch. But you wail. Maybe these sportscar kitties have more hips than you dug. Anyway, the next time the man jingles you about a gymkhana, you are fight on him. "Belts and helmets, Daddy-o?", you query. "Where did you learn those words?" "I read a book, Prez." You start to make all the local bits, carry on with apexes, drifts broadslides, and making it back to first in a crash box. You become the hippest. Man, you "KNOW!" You're so hipped on this scene, you almost become beat. Your little world is destroyed the first time you make a track. There they are -- the Giants. Loden cloth crash helmets, ivy league coveralls, the whole works. What can I tell you! This has got to be your way! How to start? A hill! Your man tells you about a hill! You start to pack, talk to Jay-Jay about carburetors, dig out your old prayer wheel, and set out. There they are man – Bristols, Injected Corvettes, blown Healy's, the OSCA's, and this extraterrestrial one in a stocker-than-stock M.G. Continued on page 3 |
THE BETTER
HALF By June Stassen To all sports car widows and gals we dedicate this column. Most of the time we gals don't know what our heros are talking about when it comes to cars, so we feel that a few lines to educate the fair sex in the general use of the lingo our men spout off would be in order. Most of us know what a sports car is. We know that the darn thing takes up an unusual amount of our heartbeats' time, but do we know what makes these darling little ?;*#; cars tick? At the start, all cars are about the same -- at least they started out that way from the factories -- but our men somehow always manage to change this. Most cars have engine, four wheels, and sometimes an extra one in the trunk (if you can afford a trunk or the like in our little "gem") It's neatly arranged for you-know-who to sit on. These cute little monsters also have, if you're lucky, windows, fenders, and the usual amount of dirt, grease and spare parts. For reasons known only to the male sex, sports cars require a lot of discussing. There is no sports car in captivity that could move an inch without first its proud owner having at least four hours of talking-it-over-with-the-boys down at the local SHELL station. At these little get-togethers, a female is just not appreciated. You are sometimes even forgotten. They speak a language all their own in which a gal has no place. It is this strange dialog we shall try to invade. Any attempt, however, to throw together even the roughest sort of dictionary in this short time would surely be in vain. So, gals, we ask that you bear with us and give us a little time and we promise you that sometime in the near future you too will be able to decipher the jargon of the Grease Circuit. In the meantime we still have one weapon ... girl ta1k - all the juicy dirt we can get our paws on. With this thought in mind, we would like to congratulate Fred and Nancy on their engagement, and extend our best wishes for a happy life ahead. We also learn there will be a new addition to the Bobby Voehl family. The little bundle should take the checkered flag sometime in April. Any favorable comments on this column will be gratefully accepted and remember, boys, you are gentlemen – so keep your opinions under your distributer cap. |