Fellas, lest we forget Angela:
2:30 Tuesday afternoon. YOU: In Allen Tx., outside of Dallas. The Speedster looks like it used to be silver with flared fenders and a chrome roll bar, but is now smoking badly and in need of lots of TLC. It looks like a WWII fighter plane, crashing over Germany.
Pieces were falling off into the roadway behind you before it ground to a stop. Your hair was matted down flat and your face is covered in brake fluid. Your steering wheel is in your hand, and the sounds of Jerry Garcia were coming from the transistor radio in your pocket. Your car only had four plug wires, and I can see the remaining three all hanging out from below your busted-up doghouse fan shroud.
ME: I was on McDermott and 175, 230 meters from the zero point on my Garmin, watching you as the Allen, Tx., cops clubbed you like a Japanese harbor seal and hauled you off for allegedly stealing someone's car. My Spyder runs perfectly, even though I'm 1,836.2 miles from home with no roof, cosmetics or air conditioning. I happen to have twelve EXTRA plug wires in my backpack.
Who Are you? I am in town for a couple of days. Would love to buy your car a cup of coffee and talk to its engine for a while.
