Brief encounter
Discussion
Driving down Wensleydale in my MX5 ND on Wednesday , I joined my road in Leyburn behind an ice blue Aston Martin DB4 and an Alpine Renault. I'd expected the Aston to be driven reasonably sedately as one rarely sees valuable classics being driven with brio. But this one was - with a lovely growl I could hear from 75 yards behind the DB4 was up and away as soon as we left the 30 limit.What a lovely drive it was- the little convoy had a clear road on the 10miles to Masham and while we didn't go much above 60 we rarely were much below it on the twisty run .I wouldn't have gone much quicker if the road had been empty . At one point a phalanx of big bikes loomed in the mirror at the end of the one long straight - we didn't see them again until we were well into the Masham 30 limit .
In the unlikely event the driver of either the Aston Martin or Alpine reads this - that was fun !
In the unlikely event the driver of either the Aston Martin or Alpine reads this - that was fun !
Edited by coppice on Friday 13th June 07:42
I had a similar experience. Troy Queef might have described it thus:
The sinewy ribbon of tarmac that is the B1113 from Stowmarket to Diss was our playground. Early morning sun pricked the eyes, glinting off faded chrome and casting lengthy shadows foretelling a warm day to follow.
Progress was as swift as my conveyance could handle, my local knowledge filling in gaps in my steed's ability to make progress. My goal: Snetterton, with its wide open spaces and the promise of a day's racing to observe.
All at once I spied a flash of red in the distance, my eagle eye immediately identifying a Ferrari 328. My pulse quickened, my eyes narrowed: I was in pursuit. My steed's 98bhp were unleashed with refreshed vigour, the rate at which I caught the Italian dreamboat surprising. Soon enough I was on its tail, its curvaceous hind quarters filling my vision with Rosso Corsa but its four exhausts strangely lacking in opera. I soon realised why: he was held up by a mere underling in a Nissan Micra, bumbling its way to the Co-Op.
As soon as the road opened up, so did the Ferrari. With a spine-tingling wail and a polite burst of right indicator he was away before the next bend. I flicked my charge out of overdrive and dropped a cog, in anticipation of the next opportunity. Sure enough, I saw my chance and seized it, gritting my teeth as eight valves and four weary pistons threatened to collide. Pulling back in after my triumph, I steadied myself for the next curve that arrived slightly too soon. I scrubbed what speed I could, but felt the rear tyres relinquish their grip momentarily. Quicker than a greased eel on its way to bank lottery winnings, I caught it with a dab of oppo and I was gone.
The rusty MGB GT I'd borrowed from my friend Jane was a b
h. And I spanked it.
The sinewy ribbon of tarmac that is the B1113 from Stowmarket to Diss was our playground. Early morning sun pricked the eyes, glinting off faded chrome and casting lengthy shadows foretelling a warm day to follow.
Progress was as swift as my conveyance could handle, my local knowledge filling in gaps in my steed's ability to make progress. My goal: Snetterton, with its wide open spaces and the promise of a day's racing to observe.
All at once I spied a flash of red in the distance, my eagle eye immediately identifying a Ferrari 328. My pulse quickened, my eyes narrowed: I was in pursuit. My steed's 98bhp were unleashed with refreshed vigour, the rate at which I caught the Italian dreamboat surprising. Soon enough I was on its tail, its curvaceous hind quarters filling my vision with Rosso Corsa but its four exhausts strangely lacking in opera. I soon realised why: he was held up by a mere underling in a Nissan Micra, bumbling its way to the Co-Op.
As soon as the road opened up, so did the Ferrari. With a spine-tingling wail and a polite burst of right indicator he was away before the next bend. I flicked my charge out of overdrive and dropped a cog, in anticipation of the next opportunity. Sure enough, I saw my chance and seized it, gritting my teeth as eight valves and four weary pistons threatened to collide. Pulling back in after my triumph, I steadied myself for the next curve that arrived slightly too soon. I scrubbed what speed I could, but felt the rear tyres relinquish their grip momentarily. Quicker than a greased eel on its way to bank lottery winnings, I caught it with a dab of oppo and I was gone.
The rusty MGB GT I'd borrowed from my friend Jane was a b
h. And I spanked it.coppice said:
Bravo - excellent . But you missed - 'vice like grip of the Recaros' and 'rifle bolt gearchange'- possibly because a B lacks both ?
Worse: it was a rubber bumper one, so devoid of any handling finesse the chrome ones might have been blessed with. And stripey nylon seats.Gassing Station | Classic Cars and Yesterday's Heroes | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff