Everything Connecticut

Quite a number of emotions can be ushered when tearing through epic scenery on curvy mountain roads. At face value you have gazing views possibly interrupted by the next focal point of an apex, a heal and toe downshift and biting tires grasping for traction while accelerating out of the turn. Engine noise, smelly brakes and barking passengers can put a dent on the occasion, but not today.

The Connecticut country side on the way to Lime Rock Park silences all the above, allowing for a nostalgic trip on a more than perfect day. My mom and dad used to drive the family on the same roads nearly thirty years ago. Dad raced Formula cars (the series now celebrating 40 years of racing) while Mom ran the pits. I played with gear oil and my newly born sister probably smiled, cried and did all sorts of things newborns do. This was my first time back to Lime Rock since those days and after a great deal of nostalgic directions from Dad, I picked two routes maximizing racing both on and off the track.

Leaving bright and early, NYC traffic poses no problems as we head up 684 to Brewster. I’m always happily stunned how quick city turns to lush country in a matter of minutes. The rare chilled morning in August offers a fresh ride with the sunroof open and the heater on. A bit eager to leave the parkway, we take an early exit for route 22 and discover the meaning of a Westchester compound. Route 22 can certainly throw some curves, but the paparazzo in us keeps the speed slow in the car but fast on the shutter. The mansions thin out further north leaving room for scenery and a quick car wash to rid the hood of debris from a midnight bird bomb attack. The remains meddle with the blue sky reflection.
















From 22 we take Dad recommended Amenia Union Rd. I daydream of the family traveling in the yellow pickup with race car in tow or just going out on a cruise in the Saab 99 EMS. Dad more than likely wasn’t going at the same clip. Happy I set the KYB dampers up to level three of four, the arcs and curves are taken flat until the serious corners come about. Heavy braking and a racing engine alert the passenger while the ensuing g-forces wake the dog. I pay no attention. Conscious dreaming keeps me true to the road. However, age sets in and I think about owning a home up here and how upset I would be if some lowly Honda interrupted my morning brew at 90mph. A Ferrari or Porsche, OK, but not a Fast and Furious Honda, circa mid-90’s.
















Manners matter not until we enter Sharon, Connecticut, and discover lofty elm trees lining the road all the way to Mudge Pond. For racing fans, the name might ring a bell from Sam Posey’s book, Mudge Pond Express. Sam Posey’s autobiography details his racing career while in this area and we tip toe respectfully by the glistening lake. My dad says Mudge Pond is “Everything Connecticut,” and he’s right. Rounding a bend, time pauses. Two fishermen float effortlessly with the fog on the water while a faint breeze tickles the lake surface, leaving the fog intact. Viewed through the shore reeds, I shut the engine out of respect and take a photo to capture the moment. This certainly is “Everything Connecticut,” and we continue the ballerina dance through the fairytale local.

Once clear, I break loose the V-TECH to make up time and arrive at Lime Rock just as the first practice begins. At such speed, deer look like cows and wild turkeys look like peacocks. The dog stands me corrected while taking great interests in the visuals from the back seat.
















I have no visual memories of Lime Rock Park, just old photos and narrations from my parents. The photos and narrations detail tree lined hills, trees and more trees. This all comes true when you arrive at the raceway. No stands, no hideous buildings or garages, no gravel fields, no mud pits or stadium lights mare the view. It is as if the opening scene to the Sound of Music is rewritten with a race track circling Julie Andrews. It is just that. You won’t hear Andrews belting her chorus, but you will hear flat six Porsches, burbling V8 Vets and time honored Triumphs providing musical accompaniment.
















As the first practice of show room stock SCCA cars makes way around the track, the Honda’s doors open, clam shell hatch down, dog bowls out, food, water, leash attached to the tow hook, stretch of legs, pack the bag, bowls dumped, blanket removed, clam shell hatch closed, dog unhooked and off we go. You may now stop the Benny Hill theme music in your head.




If you want to see the track, you have to walk. Although there is a large hill where you can see the great majority of the track, some of the better turns and hills are just a few minutes’ walk away. The hill (we referred to it as Mount Andrews) is where you want to end up after walking the track and next time we’ll set up shop by one of the trees early. Shade becomes a premium when arriving to the final races late in the day. About turn six is a wicked off camber uphill jump that many cars take air on with one or two tires. That upsetting bit leads right into another off camber downhill turn. Unfortunately it is difficult to view this turn and we leave it for another time.















The pits may stink in life, but they’re the best place to be at the race track. The Formula 1 boys have the best racing kits with big rigs, gourmet buffets, cover models and twelve or more laptops working the telemetry of just one car. The car sits in the middle of it all under an awning with master mechanics working precision tools on top of plush carpet. To seal the deal, fancy metal chains, usually white, keep the rift raft at bay like an exclusive club on the Riviera.

This isn’t the case with amateur racing and the better for it. At the extreme you might have a big rig but no carpet or fancy crowd control, not even a buffet. At the norm, you have the SUV towing a trailer with all the kit in the SUV or stacked somewhere (even in the race car) on the trailer. A couple jack stands and folding chairs mark off the work area but in this league, those markers are just as effective as the large Mediterranean bouncers at Formula One. My favorite is the showroom stock racers that race what they brought and pray for an outcome that will at least let them run the car home under its own power. I raced this way while import drag racing in Palmdale, CA. A long way from West Hollywood, every redline shift to the quarter mile marker was cause for concern. But only just.















A brief break for food gives us enough energy to tour more of the pits and make it to the far side of the track. Vintage Porsches and Jaguars break up the monotony of the reproducing Miata’s and allow pause to consider the cost and focus required to turn a classic into a racing car. That E-Type won’t bring in millions at the auction now. The loss of appreciation alone shows dedication to the car and the hobby.

The grassy hill on the outside of the track across from the pits is empty and copious. We let the dog loose and watch him frolic in the grass while we listening to an Alfa GTV work down the gears into the turn one carousel. Determined to find a viewing spot for the off camber hill leading to the front straight, we head for the stream bordering the same area and let the dog do the rest. We can’t reach the intended area due to brush, but the dog has no problems finding a water hole to cool off in. Yet another body of water Hugo the dog can claim his own. I need to get some signs that say, “Hugo swam here!”

After watching the Miata class run, its back to Andrew’s Peak and claim the last area of shade to watch the showroom stock class battle. A Miata and Acura Integra battle for supremacy with the Miata winning out after the carousel threw the front drive Integra into an understeer nightmare. Dad’s Formula racers and Triumphs compiled the last races. The previously mentioned vintage E-type Jag sounds stunning running 10/10ths around Lime Rock. You can’t see the driver’s face, but you know there’s a proper grin. There is on mine.














The racing blood boils. I want on the track. With cars, dancing with the limit of adhesion is my magic moment. In drag racing, the launch causes me to exhale and focus on the inputs from the car to get the maximum power through the wheels to the ground. In autocrossing, flinging 3000 pounds of car around a corner allows a tango of under, over and uber-steer all balanced by the steering wheel, throttle and break at the same time. Get it right and your heart melts. Get it wrong and it skips a beat.














Ready to bring my blood temperature down a bit, I have all intentions of blasting through the country side back to NYC. Don’t blame the logy motor home in front. I’m going slower. The scenery along route 7 to Cornwall and Kent is inspiring. With blissful thoughts and undiscovered discontent for Brooklyn, every mile is taken with a longing for the next visit. Yes, this road could be an 8/10ths bravery competition, but why would you? Thankful for the sunroof, the 360 degree view of the area even has the dog turning circles in the back seat. Or does he need out?

Not taking any chances with the puppy, we pull over by the mountain river following us to Kent. Another “Everything Connecticut,” moment occurs and time stops as Hugo bounces along the river boulders and dives into the currents. We cool our feet in the mountain water while the trees provide enchanting songs of rustling leaves. Succeeding in coaxing wet puppy back in the car, Kent arrives in good time and we slow to paparazzi speed. Road side tea houses, red painted train depots and ghastly expensive antique shops put Kent on our “must see” list for a later date. The covered bridge at Cornwall is an accessory to the day’s sights but we drive through it anyway just because.

Rustic brilliance turns to urban drudgery as fast moving traffic ushers us from “Everything Connecticut” to “Fagetaboutit Brooklyn.” It all happens far too quickly. The rest of the evening is spent on the Internet looking at homes in Connecticut. I day dream of twisty roads, running down the gears to the perfect apex and fishing on morning calm lakes, while the dog dreams of grass. It isn’t often you visit a race track, a state, a village or even a road providing such a sense of occasion.

Mother Of All Living!

I’ve mentioned times before about the nicks, scratches and small dents vehicles endure as the normal part of existing in NYC. I still get a kick out of seeing the super mobiles traveling around NYC showing the same battle scars of city driving. I’ve also noted how the last couple months the little Honda has received more damage than in twelve previous years of ownership in Atlanta, Orlando, Texas and Los Angeles. And then there was this morning.

A few blocks from home, a scrapping sound from the right rear raises my frustration level that we all have with our older vehicles. Love them or hate them, we can’t get rid of them for whatever reason and there always seems to be something maintenance oriented going on. Can’t you just run trusty old car?

I pulled over, well, really doubled parked and got out to see what was going on this time. A bloody bastard somehow side swiped the right rear quarter panel while my car was parked! It wasn’t there last night. The damage wasn’t the big issue here (the scraping was the body molding come loose but easily enough put in order) as much as the bugger got away with it and now I have to foot the bill. I went home with the wounded Honda too steamed over the injustice to continue the day in a gray state of affairs.

Assessing the damage further after arriving home, a neighbor whom I’ve seen but never met (that only happens during blackouts and devastating snow storms), came out and told me the tale of the construction truck down the street hitting my car, at 8:15am, license plate number and description of the driver included. Stunned anyone would say anything, a smile came across my face and suddenly I’m seeing dollars covering the damage they did as well as two door dings and a scratch from previous encounters. The conversation in mixed English and Spanish was civil and as in most business dealings in NYC, under the table cash is perfectly acceptable.

I went to Romeo’s Collision Work down the street. For five years I purposefully travel by his shop for two reasons: one, he has more vintage sports cars from around the world parked on a daily basis for repairs than the Pebble Beach Concours would after a vandalism spree, and two, a Subaru American Rally Series outfit is next door and they keep in business by outfitting and repairing similar rides for other racers. Good tunes from engine tuning and vintage eye candy are always to be had. It also appears Mr. Romeo keeps in business by being a source for a Porsche dealer’s body repair work. If it is good enough for Porsche, it is good enough for me.

Over the years of walking past Romeo’s, I see it is frequently visited by 911’s from the sixties, a few 914’s here and there and two years ago, I pissed my pants seeing a Porsche GT parked there. It wasn’t so much the sight of a GT outside of auto show confines, but the smashed rear end with temporary tags on. Oh God, the horror! A Ferrari F40 was certainly a sight but only marred by a second one (different tags at least) a few weeks later. Both suffered curb crunches (or pot hole drops) on opposite sides of the front spoiler. Maranello’s kids are infrequently in for repairs but always a nice sight to see from the inside out with bumpers and the like removed.

My Honda’s mishap allowed stalking to become a reality and once past the garage doors, the repair shop was more enticing. A bathtub Porsche sat in disarray with just a touch of sunlight cascading on the rusted metal from the shop skylight above. I wanted to take a piece of sandpaper and go to it. The allure was immense. Past that emotion (as the shop becomes just that, emotional) a Spitfire, a 944 SCCA racer, a last generation M5 just in for touch-ups and then the real magic begins, two Fiat 500’s.

Mr. Romeo is an Italian immigrant of a certain age. The neighborhood surrounding the shop is quintessential Italian and the six by twelve block area is only now being somewhat gentrified, but certainly still home to some first generation American Italians. Mr. Romeo has the charm of an aged craftsman. The scars on his hands from multiple knuckle knocks compliments his epidermis that has endured years of shop dust and paint. If I were the owner of a smashed Porsche GT or a creation from Maranello, I’d want no one else doing the job but Mr. Romeo. I went there with the Honda just for kicks, and I wasn’t paying!

Understanding Mr. Romeo comes from a post WWII Italy will help you understand why his eyes glistened when I recognized the Fiat 500. First, you must pronounce it right and I practiced before picking up the Honda. Click here for practice (http://www.fiat500.com/eng/popup_languages.asp?ID=12) and repeat over and over. Now that you have that down, when I left the bathtub Porsche and bee lined over to the shell of a Fiat Cinquecento (and pronounced it just so) Mr. Romeo and I spent the next 30 minutes discussing the history and future (http://www.fiat500.com) of the 500. This car gave Italy wheels after WWII and a following not unlike that of the Mini Cooper. Rear engine, two cylinders and light as a feather, the wheel base along with a wide stance could give anyone miles of smile power below government speed recommendations. Very certainly below speed limits, but in that size of a car, who cares? And when it comes to expensive fuel, you won’t care either at the pump.

Every car has a history but this Fiat 500 (and the one outside that “almost” runs) is Mr. Romeo’s history. Only now, he works on the world’s most rare and beautiful cars, but perhaps not the most important on a personal, magical level.

Yes, the Honda turned out great and even the paint matching was right on for a red car that likes to bask in the sun twelve years and going. Would I expect any less? Nope. Now, I need someone to hit the front bumper, both doors and mid-tailgate, so I can get rid of annoying car door blemishes. Wait, I lied. I don’t care about the blemishes I just want to visit Mr. Romeo again.

Extreme Parking Challenge II

Kids, don't try this at home, do it outside! Another win for the 160" Honda at Prospect Park, Brooklyn. Yes, I did get out with no scrapes.

Escape From The Big Apple

The intended purpose of having a car in NYC is for excursions to other lands where the subway can’t go. Traveling with dog, excursions of any kind via public transportation is off limits.

With a hot day forecasted for the NYC area and the neighbor’s back yard under jackhammer construction, it was time to escape NYC. It was also the perfect day to introduce Hugo, the six month hold, 55 pound “puppy” to the ocean.

First off, flight check, Brooklyn style: four tires and wheels-check, both side mirrors-check, main part of stereo-check, engine-check, let’s go! Two hour’s drive with moderate traffic from NYC, will get you to Island Beach in NJ. Being the middle of the week and a few days before most schools get out for summer break, the timing could not have been more perfect. Except for the Holland tunnel, all was well concerning traffic and the Honda got to stretch its legs again with some cruise control action in the 80mph range.

Jersey folk are courageous. No one brushed the break pedal passing slow moving highway patrol cars. Must know someone. 80mph is a nice cruise speed in the old Civic. I’m just one gear away from enacting the VTEC to pass traffic, keep my distance from other traffic or just to keep up with the SUV sleds. Apparently I used that one gear a lot managing a fuel burn rate of 27mpg, one of my worse recordings to date.

Yes, I know, that’s still really good for a mix of 90mph bursts and first gear commuting, but is isn’t my 30mpg I’ve been getting lately with all city driving and not near the 40mpg I’ve managed in cross country drives. That VTEC cam sounds so good though, and anything goes between 90 and 115mph in 4th gear. Maybe a little more consumption isn’t all that bad.

In typical city fashion, we were hopelessly unprepared for a beach outing. The local store along the way saw a basket filled with an umbrella (dog gets hot you know), suntan lotion, food, drinks, and whatever else I thought Mrs. Cleaver might pack for a day at the beach, including the wet wipes. Plastic store bags can hold lots of ice for the day and I saved $20 bucks going with the ghetto cooler. The saving will go into the VTEC kiddy of fun.

Island Beach State Park in Jersey is a narrow 10 miles of protected sea shore with the Atlantic on one side and the bay on the other side. Besides seclusion for the most part, surf fishing and beach driving for 4x4s is part of the action as well as major wildlife viewing. Suddenly I wanted the Honda to turn into the Go-Go-Gadget SUV so I could get to the tidal pool area way the hell down past the last of the road.

Truth be known, I came to the beach for the beach, not tear through it. The Honda’s clam shell hatch is a wonder to have, providing a nice seat to change attire and shoes. The tow hook in the back is very handy for tying up the four legged terror and the Honda is just heavy enough not to be dragged by Hugo when he goes after the next seagull.

Once the burn on the skin set in we passed on the turnpike and headed up shore through the various beach towns and had a nice time of it. Ashbury Park was a nice place to stop for ice cream on the boardwalk and along with the cool breeze from the ocean, our skin was feeling much better. Good thing that, as the A/C decided to dump the remaining Freon in the parking lot and it was windows down the rest of the way home.
The disdain I have for the A/C in the Honda runs deep and between my dad and me, the hundreds of dollars spent on the “conditioner” is the single most expensive maintenance item on the car. The fact that I don’t use it much makes the situation worse, both from a maintenance issue and emotional issue. Grrr, but I wasn’t going to let the A/C issue ruin and otherwise great escape from the Big Apple. By the way, the dog body surfs!

Morning Zen

I’ve been backing up early morning domestic trips to my long haul International trips. I’m up anyway with jetlag and my theory is if I travel six to seven hours one way, traveling three hours the other way ought to even things out somewhat. Wrong. .

Sunday morning around 6am is the only time to drive in NYC. Most road construction workers heard the quitting whistle around 5am, the drunks are safely at home parked on someone else’s lawn and Grandma is just finishing up her coffee before heading out to see the grandkids. It is time to stretch the legs of the Honda, having been confined to third gear or lower for over a month.

With the sunroof open, windows down and a oddly cool early summer morning my moment of Zen arrived as I roared to ninety-five, just when the VTEC cam switches over and sings. The LIE may be newly paved, but that means nothing to people paving roads during the midnight hours.

Astonishingly, there was no jitter in the steering, no pulling and no vibration of note from what has to be some seriously misaligned alignment down below. After three months of NYC roads I was expecting a tug of war and massaged hands from the steering wheel. None of that was apparent and the Honda certainly isn’t known for lack of feel.

This moment of Zen is courtesy of the NYPD without radar guns and all those off the road at 6am. I’d also like to thank the NY State road crew for a reasonable one mile stretch of the LIE between Queens Boulevard and the VWE. Yes, one mile of Zen but I’ll take what I can get.

How convenient for me, I get my car back just in time for some of the highest fuel prices ever. Cents away from record fuel prices, I further count my blessings for such a car purchase some 13 years ago. Having just paid for the third fuel up, I scored 31 mpg. All city driving, rarely if ever in 5th gear and I’m not sure if I ever got out of second gear on my last 15 mile commute to JFK. No, I’m quite sure I didn’t.

I’m working that plus 30 mpg figure though. I shift quick, stay out of the VTEC cam switch at 4,800 rpm’s and coast as much as possible to stop lights, slowing traffic and the down side’s of bridges. I’ve considered switching the car off at long lights but that might be too stressful for such an old starter motor going on 13 years.

I do feel as though I’m the only one with regard to fuel prices and how much fuel I use. Perhaps I’m poorer than everyone else (likely) and the many SUV drivers don’t mind flooring the gas to the next red light knowing they truly have the cash to burn. I know such driving in those vehicles offers the owner with 15 mpg or less once they hit the pumps. The Yukon filling up next to me last week tilted the pump at $100 and was still going. OUCH!

On a recent outing in a 2005 Range Rover to Long Island and back, the gas attack ended up being 13 mpg. I was driving lightly with Ms. Daisy in the passenger seat, hung-over from a previous night’s romp and that’s the best I could do. I can’t imagine what the fuel economy would have been if I drove the BMW V-8 equipped Rover proper. OUCH!

There are times when I feel like jamming the VTEC to scream mode and I do miss those days, but I need to save some cash. Hugo the dog is eating more and more and non-poisoned dog food costs more these days. I’ve told Hugo the car he joyfully slobbers in is more efficient than he is, but he just looks at me with puppy eyes saying, “Easy on the right foot, I’m hungry.”

Take That SUV!

Two hockey sticks, three pairs of roller hockey skates, seven bags of mulch, two large bags of potting soil, sprinkler, large fern, potted tomato and eggplants and an outdoor rug complete the bounty collected while running errands around Brooklyn. Almost as impressive as the large gas grille and 6’ picnic table on the last run, but on that one, I couldn't’t get the trunk closed.

Regardless, so many people fail to see the usefulness of a hatchback and even at the pint size of the Honda. A heavy load may look crazy, but the job is completed the same as a gas guzzling and road hogging SUV. Years ago I broke one of the seat latches allowing one side of the split folding back seats to lower. I’ve never been able to fix it but I’ve done fairly well with just one side adjusted. I saw a back seat for sale on eBay but there must be a better way.

The big load test will be accommodating Hugo the dog. He’ll reach maturity in six months and I’ll be loading 100 pounds of slobbering dog. Although fairly content with the back seat at this time, with fixed windows and tight rear entry for four big legs, the front passenger is starting to look worried in the world of pack order.