Men are a curious lot. Driven by primal doctrines but often tamed by the beauty of a spring flower 0r the nose of a fine wine. Generations calmed by the winds of civility and harnessed by the fairer sex. Sometimes even cornered into submission ... But wait! Don't turn away! This definitely isn't about our 'softer' side. But the hunter-gatherer, king of the jungle, that guttural animal that now and again breaks those surly bonds and escapes to freedom. Real men know what I'm talking about. It's about turning on one of the few legal testosterone 'highs' known to modern man. CORVETTES! Yes a Corvette. That curvaceous mechanical temptress that stirs the embers of the loins, easily lowers your voice a full octave, and grows hair in the strangest places. Those blessed with the keys to such wondrous machines treat them like fickle lovers. Caressing them with soft chamois and luxurious waxes ...never allowing their skin to blemish or fade for fear they will somehow slip away in the night...never to be driven again.
You see ... Corvettes are never really owned but only allowed to be in the presence of those select few deemed worthy of the relationship. And a few weeks ago the love fest was here. That's right! Right here in a stoic RV camp as a platoon of these "Viagra" pills on wheels gracing the roadways of Cousins RV Park. Purring, roaring, shining ... they wound their way through camp like a stripper 'round a brass pole. Sensuous and masculine at the same time. Onlookers smiled, drooled and mused as the parade began. Many dreaming someday that they too could join in the dance ... the chest thumping, foot stomping ballet of the chosen few.
But some, like me... who had once danced in the arms of these mechanical lovers are now just happy to remember the good old days as the parade passes. Almost forgotten were the high insurance rates, the quirky acting vacuum headlights, the ever-present electrical problems ... but never forgetting the looks people gave you as you passed, the little wave from a passing vette' owner, or just that feeling of sitting in America's only true sports car right there in your driveway. Actually you didn't even need to start the engine... just sit there and admire and be admired.
The one thing that strikes me today is that the folks I grew up with are still the ones driving these beauties. Not kids... but maybe still kids at heart... mature guys and gals. Or maybe the kids today don't have the money ...thinking back my 65' coupe; bought in 67', cost me $2200 at the local Ford used car lot. Seemed like a lot back then. Or maybe today's kids are a little more conscious of their 'carbon footprint' or being 'green' than we were but I think there missing something really special.
As the parade ended and each car turned out of the parking lot and headed south on the Blue Star ...several gave us a little taste of what Yankee horsepower is all about. Not the high pitch scream of one of those overcooked 4 bangers but that guttural roar that only cubic inches can give. Blue smoke rolling from the wheel wells like steam from a locomotive with tires clawing into the pavement...the ever increasing roar from those powerful v-8's as they re-stripped the Blue Star with two fresh black ribbons of spent rubber. Now if that doesn't get your heart a thumping!
But as I was later told ... within a mile or so down the road, the troupe ran smack into the first leg of the area's yearly triathlon. With over 2000 bicyclist on the same two lane road, the smell of burning rubber turned into the torment of holding these mechanical beasts to a 15 mph crawl for then next 20 miles to Benton Harbor. So what was planned as a leisurely cruise to St. Joe for lunch turned into hot engines and maybe even some hot tempers. I can only imagine what venting occurred on their return trips home.
Anyway it was a fun experience that brought back a lot of memories for me and hopefully will turn into a yearly event to be enjoyed by all.
Still livin' the dream.
Phil
