I am in
lust.
She was born in 1971, a Fiat 124 spider with yellow body panels and a nicely welded roll cage jutting gently from her passenger compartment. She breathes freely through a two-barrel Weber carburetor and her high lift camshaft makes her hungry for throttle. Her shoes are wide, sticky slicks, and though she looks innocent, this little vixen has been raced for over 30 years. Yet she remains reliable, idling with in insouciant rumble, ready to race, and ready to win.
She even comes with spares. Whole engines, transmissions, carefully molded fiberglass body parts. Three sets of wheels. Her seat is lean and spare, her fuel cell ready for racing gas. Best of all, she can be mine, all mine for only US$2K.
Oh how I long to hold her steering wheel in my hands, to wind her out to redline down the back straight at Mid Ohio, to feel her dancing lightly in a four wheel drift. As the gee forces build the song of her engine is sweet to me, and I know she'll treat me right when I enter the braking zone.
Oh, you little F production Fiat, you call to me, and to the track. Oh how I want to feel you beneath me.
But you are like all seductive little things, in that you give yourself freely, but demand much in return. New brake pads every other weekend, a bolt check between every session. Entry fees. Racing gas. Tires that cost $800 a set. Your carburetor must always be adjusted. You ask little at first, but soon my credit limit shall runneth over with your demands. Yet I cannot resist you, and perhaps I shall reach out to you and once again dance the dance of pure speed.