VALENTINES DAY MASSACREE
by Colin P. Cobb
So anyway...
Our British car club stages an annual Valentine's Day Rallye billed as
the "Sweetheart Run" which gives us all an excuse to wash the little
dears--the cars that is--and trot them out for a gallop up and down the
Mesilla Valley. It is strictly a fun day with the Rallye staged to
finish up at a restaurant where mass quantities of "comidas y cervezas"
are consumed and not a trophy, but a heart shaped box of chocolates, is
awarded to the winner and his lovely navigator.
This year the Sweetheart Run was expected to be a particular treat since
we were to be blessed by the humor and intellect of a new club
RallyeMeister, the Right Honourable Ed T. Townley. Little did we know
that the "T." stood for "Torquemada."
St. Valentine's Day dawned clear and cold in Southern New Mexico but by
9 AM the ambient temp was already up to 60 degrees. By noon it was over
70 and the cloudless sky was crystal clear, a cerulean dome over-arching
all Cupid's victims, righteous and unrighteous alike. There was not a
hint of a breeze, the air so still that the beat of Starling's wings
could be heard as they flew 50 feet overhead. Almost, the beat of their
tiny wings could be felt on our tenderly upturned cheeks.
St. Valentine's Day notwithstanding, my faithful native bearer and bride
of nearly 34 years loaded down the Tiger's cavernous trunk with coats
and jackets, ice chests and emergency rations, tool boxes and wash
rags... This day her 'Beamish Boy with his hardtop installed would
hunker down in the garage whilst topless Tigger stretched and growled in
the afternoon sun.
"Do you want me to put the maps in the car?" Janet asked.
"Hah!" I sneered. "Maps? We doan need no steenkin' maps!"
Promptly at 1 PM Tigger, on a very short leash, nosed slowly up the
driveway ("Speed Limit 2 MPH, Critters Have The Right Of Way"). Sure
enough, he busted a covey of about 30 Gamble's quail busily taking dust
baths in the driveway, sending them fluttering and flailing to the four
corners of the compass. Janet lamented the fact that it would doubtless
take them all day to figure out where they were, as compared to where
they were supposed to be, and to get back together again.
Once on the four-lane macadam with the temp gauge at 90 degrees C, I
could no longer contain myself or Tigger and I dropped the hammer a bit,
accelerating through the gears up to about 80 before dropping back down
nearer the statutory 55 mph. Take it from me, boys and girls, there
ain't nothin' like a top down Tiger at 65 mph on a glorious February
afternoon...
We rumbled into the Lucky-Save On parking lot just before the advertised
1:30 PM blast-off. This was a "run what ya brung" event and about a
dozen cars showed up. A TR3, an XK140 Coupe, an XJS, a Ranger Pickup, a
Lancia, a Corvair convertible, and a bevy of MGB's. And, of course, my
lone Tiger.
RallyeMeister Ed. T. Townley (little did we know the "T." stood for
"Twisted") brought down his lovely bride, Ida's, new Bugeye Sprite just
to show it off. Just purchased, the little dear has a fancy new respray
(beige-goldish in some lights, silverish in others), a fresh interior,
and the original 948 cc engine in good condition. The whole dang engine
is about the size of Tigger's brake booster.
Promptly at 1:30, Ed T. (for Toker) Townley passed out the Rallye
instructions to the Navigators. The instructions, I noted as I peered
over Janet's shoulder, were 4 pages long. 4 pages! I gently ripped the
instructions from my bride's hands and, thanks to Evelyn Wood, was able
to wade all the way through them in under half-an-hour.
I understood the first General Instruction: "No Unpaved Roads, Posted
Speed Limits SHOULD (emphasis added) Be Observed."
But what about the second General Instruction: "ēNo Single Last Names.
For Example, No SMITHS, But Could Be A Mary Smith." Hmmmmm.....
I grasped the first real route instruction just fine: "1. Exit parking
lot to right." OK, no problema.
The reasoning behind the second instruction was a little more tortuous:
"2. Right at light to sign of 'what she sells at sea shore.'" Well,
alright, that could maybe mean turn right at the Shell station about
half-a-mile down the road...
The third instruction seemed straightforward enough: "3. Right to second
stop." But, unfortunately, it was followed by a question: "What
anniversary is Spring Crest Celebrating?" Huh? Whatinell is a Spring
Crest? Well, I deduce, it must be a business someplace behind the Shell
station.
OK.
By the time I got to the 8th instruction I was hopelessly lost and I
hadn't even gotten behind the wheel! "8. Left to 4th name of someone's
sweetheart (5th if you count one twice)."
"19. Left to stop, Right to sweetheart's name they named a farm road
after."
"35. Right to first name of some guy's sweetheart."
"49. Turn right at name of Valentine Gift."
"61. Right to light, right for .40 mi. to restaurant/brewery on left.
Record elapsed time total mileage "
The only instruction with a mileage reference was number 61, the very
last one.
The always lovely Ida Townley noted the grimace of pained panic on my
erstwhile cherubic countenance, took in the manner in which the four
pages of instructions rattled and shook in my palsied fingers, saw the
twitching tic beside my left eye, and shook her head sadly as she said,
"I told Ed these instructions wouldn't work."
Truer words were never spoke.
As the muttering and grumbling crowd of drivers and navigators closed in
on RallyeMeister Ed T. (for Truculent) Townley, I spoke up. "Ed," I
said, "I think maybe you better at least tell us whereinell we are
supposed to wind up or you and Ida are gonna get awful lonely..."
Reluctantly, as Ida twisted his right arm to the breaking point, he
grumbled that the final destination was intended to be the Way Out West
Brewery And Restaurant on Avenida de Mesilla.
OK.
So anyway...
At one minute intervals the bright and shining cars, with their not so
bright and shining drivers and navigators, headed out into the real
world.
Me, Janet, and Tigger were 7th out the gate and made a fabulous start,
roaring out the first 50 yards to the first stop sign. Sigh....
We hauled on down to the Shell station where we made a right turn and,
in short order, found the Spring Crest Mattress Store. What anniversary
were they celebrating? Not a clue. With a name like that, they shoulda
been tickled pink with their 6-month anniversary. As I cruised slowly by
the store I noted the CLOSED sign in the window and Janet offered to
jump out and look through the windows to see if we could figure it out.
"Bullshit," I offered. "Just write down CLOSED."
"Closed? What kind of anniversary is that?" she asked.
"You got me by the ass, but apparently our RallyMeister was pretty
impressed by it...."
Later (much later) we learned that one intrepid navigator, the always
lovely Cheryl Kowalski, forced her driver-husband, Walt, to stop at a
phone booth where she tried to call the Spring Crest Mattress Store to
ask how long they'd been in business. Unfortunately, there was no answer
(maybe because the store was CLOSED) so Cheryl called the Operator and
asked if she (the Operator) knew how long the Spring Crest Mattress
Store had been in business. Unfortunately, the Operator couldn't help
because Cheryl, Walt, the Spring Crest Mattress Store, and the rest of
us were all in Las Cruces while the Operator was some 240 miles north in
Albuquerque.
So, anyway.
Me, Janet, and Tigger proceeded to the second stop, took a right and
started counting "Sweethearts," which is what we figured out must mean
"Street" in Ed T. (for Thessalonian) Townley's native language. Life
should be so simple.
We counted "Sweethearts," hung our turn, and promptly ran out of road as
we heard a sort of metallic rattling and clanging noise, much as though
we had run over a beer can and sent it skittering down the road and into
the bushes. Later (much later) we would realize that it was Tigger's
right front spinner spinning off into the distance.
We backtracked and tried counting "Sweethearts" again, this time
omitting any streets that did not have a person's name. This system
broke down when we got to Cedardale St. which Janet said was not a
person's name.
"Bullshit," I opined. "I went to High School with Fred Cedardale. He was
in my Biology class and he used to eat the tongues we cut out of the
frogs we dissected. Chewed 'em right up and swallowed 'em right down.
Not for nothing did we call him Formaldehyde Face."
"Jesus H. Christ," Janet said, "With a habit like that he can't have
been anybody's Sweetheart!"
"Bullshit!" I philosophized, "You never met Pig-fetus Pauline!"
Perhaps for the best, our discourse was interrupted at this point by a
string of four sports cars, an MGB, a Lancia, an MGB, and yet another
MGB, all going back the other direction. I pulled to the side of the
road and invested a few minutes trying to re-read the instruction sheets
again, trying to see them through the eyes of a truculent Thessalonian.
No luck.
I hung a U-turn and headed back only to meet another parade. An MGB, the
Lancia, and the XK140. The sports cars were fluttering and flailing much
like that busted covey of quail in my driveway this morning... I
accelerated through them, both my fists raised jauntily over my head as
a truncated scream escaped my wind-burned lips, and we headed back for
the Lucky-Save On store.
"What?" Janet asked, "Are you going back to talk to Ed?"
"Talk to him? Hell, I am going to throw things at him!"
"Well," she said, "Be careful not to hit Ida's Bugeye Sprite. You wanna
throw the Vernors? Shame to waste them but they'll go off like hand
grenades..."
It was possibly for the best that RallyeMeister Ed T. (for Tacky)
Townley was long gone when we got back to the parking lot. We, fools
that we are, turned around and started trying to run the damned rallye
again!
Later (much later) we learned that Ida and that man she hangs around
with jumped straight to the middle of the rallye, hurrying to a place
where they would have the perfect backdrop to photograph the rallye cars
as they motored past. Yeah, right... Ida and that man she hangs around
with sat there, looking at the perfect backdrop for a very long time and
saw exactly one rallye car and it was out of camera range and going the
wrong direction. Understand, it was not just running the route backwards
but was driving at right angles to the route...
So, anyway.
After our second attempt to run the route from ground zero, and after
meeting yet another parade of Rallyeists (the XK140, an MGB, the Lancia)
going the other direction, Janet and I said to hell with it and took off
for a nice leisurely drive. We drove down to Olde Mesilla where we
toured the Plaza and marvelled at the Turistas marvelling at Tigger. We
drove down the Valley through the pecan orchards. We drove through
Mesilla Park. Finally, we drove to the Way Out West Brewery where we
found an MGB and a Ford Ranger pickup waiting for us.
"Do you mind if I wad these four pages of instructions up and throw them
on the floor where I can stomp them?" Janet asked me.
"No, no!" I said. "I'm going to roll them up into a very tight roll and
tell RallyeMeister Ed T. (for Teiid) Townley where he can deposit them.
No Vaseline, either."
Eventually Rallyeists, uniformly shaking their heads and muttering vile
curses, began to straggle into the Way Out West Brewery.
Later (much later) we learned that the Corvair had driven up to a stop
sign where it had died for no good reason (can't blame that one on
Lucas) and would not restart. Larry McMillan and Connie Maxwell in the
XK140 and the Mackleys in the Lancia were cruising around trying to
locate a set of jumper cables to restart the Corvair. The MGB was just
lost and following anybody who seemed to know where they were going.
Sometime later a Miata stopped and had a set of cables which Ed Mackley
hooked to the Lancia and started the Corvair. Trust a Miata to have
jumper cables.
Ida Townley and that man she hangs around with were among the last to
arrive at the Brewery whereupon he sadly explained that the Spring Crest
people had taken down their 23rd anniversary sign. He went on to explain
that he had just had too much faith in our collective intelligence, he'd
really thought we'd be able to follow his simple and straightforward
directions. He explained he'd simply thought we were all a lot smarter
than we really are.
The first time in recorded history that anyone ever expected a bunch of
British car drivers, let alone the Corvair and Lancia people, to be
smart.
Someone pointed out that it takes 267 muscles to frown and only four
muscles to throw the bird, so we unanimously raised our hands high in
the single-finger salute which rolled right off RallyeMeister Ed T. (for
Tufskin) Townley but really ruined our waitress' day as she happened to
be walking toward us with a tray full of cervezas at the time. Oh, well.
So, anyway...
Three cars actually turned in score sheets. Of those three, David and
Nancy Cox in the TR3 had actually managed to run almost the whole route
and were declared winners, receiving the coveted box of candy which they
promptly passed around so all the ladies present got a piece of candy.
Janet, you'll be pleased to learn, gave me half of hers...
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