ALFA ROMEO it

tools and spare parts), tucked away as
many credit cards as society allows people
like us to have, and with a rousing "Hi Ho
Romeo!" we were off! We were outside
the city when I pulled out the old plugs
and looked at them for the 38th time.
Three were fine, but the fourth one's
insulator fell to pieces in my hand.
Go figure.
The Spider ran well. At least all four
cylinders were pulling their share of
weight and it accelerated nicely and
pulled well all the way to the border and
through Buffalo. We stopped there for a
roll of film and chicken wings. The fact
that we had made it this far was worth a
picture. No cooling problems, the oil
pressure was up and there was no hint of
melting electricals. Sure, it was blowing a
bit of blue, but that, we decided was a
good thing.
God Himself Told Us
After sunset, the ambient temperature
had dropped considerably and the
trackpants and sweaters came out. The
decision that the roof would stay down
unless God himself told us to put it up
had been made weeks before. The Alfa's
engine, getting more and more broken-in
and breathing cooler,
denser air was singing
right along. This strengthened
our confidence and
our skepticism at the
same time.
I took over the driving
and slid down into the
seat. The engine fired
without hesitation and
sounded smoother than
ever. A quick poke downward
with my right foot
and the tach needle
climbed confidently.
Now everything began
to feel right.
Without thinking
about the infancy of the
engine, I selected first
and eased in the clutch,
squeezing the accelerator
to the floor. The engine
pulled strongly, the boattail
rear end squatted and I brought us
close to redline before grabbing second.
Repeating the formalities three more times
with the rev-counter rising and falling to
each occasion and we were in top gear
speeding through the darkness. I
discovered for the first time in my life that
nothing sounds quite like an Alfa Romeo
accelerating hard into the night on an
empty two-laner. The twin dohc Webers
gasping for air howled so loud I thought
they would suck in the air cleaner, the
hood and the scenery. What the hell, it
was dark out anyway.
Notching it up into fifth, I slouched a
bit in the seat and got comfortable. The
next hour or so was pure magic. With
The engine fired
without
hesitation and
sounded
Sllloothel' than
ever. A quick
pol{e downwal-d
with Iny right
foot and the tach
needle clitnbed
confidently. Now
everything began
to feel right.
Simon and Garfunkle songs going through
my head, I felt like Dustin Hoffman with
a full tank of gas. We finally came to rest
in Bath, N.Y., and after gassing up and
asking for directions, we were pointed
toward the Cherry Hill campground.
The morning came early, as mornings
often do, and the smell of breakfast
campfires permeated the nylon walls.
Mer rubbing the sleepies out of my eyes,
I quickly unzipped the door to make sure
it was really the Alfa that we brought. It
gazed right back at me looking wide
awake and smiling from fender to fender.
Ian was still unconscious and a couple
of elbows to the ribs did nothing to alter
the fact. By the time I staggered back from
the showers, dizzy and down the two
quarts of blood I had donated to the
throngs of mosquitoes that were using the
bathrooms as convention facilities, Ian
had already checked the Spider's vitals
and packed the tent away. The Red Cross
contingent spared him no mercy either, so
I let him recover while I took on the
responsibility of finding us nourishment.
Burning Daylight
Already the mercury was astonishingly
high and by the time we were two hours
from New York City, the
sun was blinding. It
bounced off road signs
and American car bumpers-a
stifling white heat
that burns through pinhole-sized
pupils, all the
while being accentuated
by the buffeting hot wind.
I felt like I was sitting next
to Sam McGee from
Tennessee. The Spider's
temperature gauge on the
other hand must have
been sipping a daiquiri in
the shade. It read a cool
170 degrees.
Skepticism set in again.
We considered the realities:
It was certainly more
than 100 degrees Fahrenheit
out, we'd been
charging along at no less
than 7Smph, the engine
hadn't been under 4000rpm since Ian's
face turned burgundy and the car, along
with the temperature gauge, was Italian.
Immediately we lost all faith, spotted a
roadside diner and pulled over. I propped
the hood open to help cool things down
and, incredibly, there was still was no sign
of coolant spillage.
"It's probably empty," said Ian, shaking
his head as he walked toward the diner to
escape premature cremation.
In the restaurant, we guzzled two
pitchers of ice-water before the sunspot
activity on the insides of our eyelids died
down and the menus came into focus.
Looking out at the Alfa through the tinted
window, it seemed to wear a great big
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