9/07/11 High Speed Graduation Run

Marco needed to go to his university in Ancona on the Adriatic coast to submit some paperwork in preparation for his upcoming graduation.  Rather than catch up on much needed sleep with an afternoon nap like almost every other sane person in Italy, I decided to join him.  After all, another city meant another checkmark on my “cities visited” list, which I’ll admit is extremely informal.

And so we hit the highway, a two lane superstrada, in Marco’s nineteen year old Renault Clio with no air conditioning on a scorching hot day.  Wind in our hair and engine screaming we passed 120 km/h.  The car began to shake in protest, but Marco ignored the warning signs.  Soon, we reached 130 km/h, engine screaming even louder and its body shakes more pronounced if that was even possible; Marco was unphased.  At 140 km/h the car settled down and found its groove.  The engine was still screaming as I loudly commented that I had never gone so fast in a car this small and this old.  Marco laughed as he pressed the pedal into the old faded carpet and touched his man parts (just a touch) for good luck (click for video).

Funny at first...

...but then the shakes got serious.

Marco checks his pulse; we're still alive!

As the scenery blurred past, I was lulled into memories of a time when I had gone even faster in a car almost as small but not nearly as old.  My brother Paul had a Plymouth Horizon (a Dodge Omni clone).  Looking back, I think of it as a birth control car because it would be next to impossible to get lucky driving that thing.  I remembered a day when time was of the essence, but I can’t recall exactly why; whatever the reason, Paul and I had to make a round trip to somewhere within a half hour…it seemed impossible.  I remember hitting 170 km/h in that car.  Shaped like a brick, and more importantly, wearing a Plymouth badge you would have never dreamed it could reach that speed; but it did.  I swear.

In the time that it took you to read that last paragraph, Marco and I still hadn’t reached top speed.  He closed his window slightly, perhaps to lessen the deafening wind noise, or perhaps to improve the aerodynamics.  Since I’m recounting the events in real time, I still have a few moments to recount another small car story while we wait for the Clio to hit terminal velocity.

I had come into possession of my brother’s ’79 Chevette which sported a “nearly” dark blue paint job; “nearly” because the touch-up paint used on it over the years never quite matched.  Let’s call it the ghost leopard spots style of auto paintjobs.  I was eighteen and in-between one of my many cars, or “shitboxes” as I lovingly refer to them, and my brother had agreed to let me use it for as long as I needed to.  The windows were tinted dark enough to get you shot by the police were it not for the fact that no criminal would be caught dead driving that thing.  In true beater style, the stereo was likely worth more than the car; a speaker box with fifteen inch subs and a monstrous amplifier that drew so much power it caused the headlights to dim at night ensured the mirrors never provided a clear view of anything.  I’ll likely go deaf in the future because of that car.

It was the spring of 1994 and I was on my way home from school with U2’s bass heavy Zooropa album pounding away.  As I turned off the 401 to the 400 North I put the pedal to the floor but couldn’t get past 110 km/h or so.  I figured there was something wrong with the car and kept my foot planted.  The faster I go, the closer I’ll be to home when this thing blows up.  Sound reasoning, no?

My head began to pound from the deafening combination of wind noise and bass so I turned off the radio at the Rutherford exit, some twenty kilometres to the north.  The engine was screaming, but since the car had no tachometer I didn’t know that I had been redlining it in third gear all the way up the highway.  It may have been a shitbox and Chevy’s poor answer to the Asian auto threat, but that car could take a beating.

Back to the present where finally Marco and I had reached the limit.  Terminal velocity; 145 km/h of pure fear.  Rejoicing momentarily in his triumph, Marco eventually let off and settled in at a shaky 120 km/h.  Relief washed over me.  I had survived and Marco would live to see graduation day.