I graduated from college in 1972, and immediately traded my slobTshirts for
the starched whites of a young ensign whose facial tan stopped abruptly at a
new hairline which told all of a rapid conversion from long haired college
puke into a modern warrior. Commensurate with my newfound glamour, I bought
my first car, a five year old 1967 Austin Healey, and learned to drive stick
the hard way, one stoplight at a time under the watchful eyes of smirking
Philadelphia police patrols. Having mastered the art of driving stylishly, I
proceeded to my parents' farm in Upstate New York to proudly pronounce my
emancipation by turning donuts in the barnyard, in the process turning the
OEW Mark III into a mud-encrusted tank. The Healey became part of, no it
became, my identity, and four years and one bride later, I emerged from
military service, now the owner of a Ferrari red 100-4 that I'd rebuilt in a
10x20 self-storage bin. We traded the 3000 for a "somewhat ratty", but very
intact BN1 which sported Borani wheels, and had been rewired by a nutty
professor who preferred wiring bridges from the physics lab over a
legitimate wiring harness. The 100 was a daily driver for the next decade,
seeing us through lawschool and a daily companion until we got the house
restoration bug.
The BN1 was sold to an interesting guy from New York City who paid us in
installments with checks drawn San Francisco, The Bahamas and a few other
places. He tendered the final $2,000 on delivery to a parking median on the
Taconic Parkway, handing a bag of crumpled $10's, $20's and $50's. Never
quite got around to what he did for a living. Anyway, the $6,000 bought a
new furnace that lasted five years.
We were in Healey remission for twenty years, doing responsible things. Then
the Marque picked me again, this time on my 52nd birthday when "Emily" went
up on Ebay. After a few birthday drinks, my fingers fell into a rhythmic
confirm bid / enter sequence that carried on until the last 20 seconds of
the auction. I tiptoed to bed, guilty over breaking three successive
I-won't-go-over's, hoping that my bidding incontinence would pass unnoticed
til morning. To my amazement, breaking the family bank didn't phaze Jean,
who immediately started reminiscing about the fun we had treachery back in
the 70's until I sold HER 3000.
Anyway, that's how our Marque picked us. Never had a choice, really.
Allen Miller BN2-M
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