defacto car-show of old and classic sportscars
Yesterday (Friday, September 8), “we” (my wife, our dogs, and I; not just me alone) drove down to Watkins Glen to take in a defacto car-show of old and classic sportscars, affiliated with vintage car-races at Watkins Glen International road-race track.
Took the dogs along. Don’t know as we should have, as it’s a one-and-a-half hour drive, which the dogs aren’t used to, plus it was beastly hot, and we were navigating a tightly-packed crowd of slobbering gray-beards, dapper in their checked bermudas, flip-flops and day-glo NASCAR T-shirts, swilling overflowing tankards of foaming brew.
The cars, over a hundred, were parked cheek-to-jowl along the main drag, angled into the curb. Also tiny parking-lots had been converted to concours, some specific to brands. There also was a grassy knoll dedicated to actual competition-cars.
But I only saw two Ferraris; one winged monster actually driven on an old-course tour. Before the track, Watkins Glen held road-races on the public roads, so “tours” of the original course are held.
Marshals clear the street with shrill police-whistles and hand-held freon horns, and then the cars blast by, up through the gears.
Of note were the Austin-Healeys with Chevy Small-Block power. I even heard an MGA with a Small-Block — how does one lever a Small-Block into an MGA?
We went at the suggestion of my “idle,” City-Editor Tim Belknap, who allegedly edits the entire mighty Mezz, despite previous frequent mention of Executive-Editor Bob Matson (“Boss-Man”) and Managing Editor Kevin Frisch (“K-Man”), both of whom outrank Belknap.
Belknap is one of many editors, which also include Poobah, Queeny, and editorial-page editor Dan Hall. The so-called “Hasidic Jew” (Dave Wheeler) is the Sunday-Editor. There are others.
Belknap manages all the local reporters — as such he is responsible for the local content of the paper: quite a bit of it.
Belknap is also a car-guy; which explains his prior attendance at this show, and jawing with me.
The lack of Ferraris was surprising, and I think the road-car was only a V8. I was told to expect lots of Ferraris.
But the show-car was the best Ferrari: a 275 LM Berlinetta coupe. Except it was black not red.
The owner was regaling some guy about the hand-made nature of Ferraris; that the right-side of his car was one-half inch longer than the left.
He also pointed out a faint ridge in the top of the left-front fender that wasn’t in the right.
His car was a V12, but regrettably I don’t think the 275LM is a Columbo V12; arguably the best motor Ferrari ever built.
American-iron stands out in this crowd like a sore thumb. A giant GTO Pontiac was on display next to a tiny Morgan.
Even Corvettes look a little garish. And then there was the yellow Cyclone, the Barracuda, the ‘53 Studebaker, and (for crying out loud) the ‘49 Plymouth coupe.
“I don’t want to drive all the way down there just to see old Fords. Old Fords are a dime-a-dozen.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll see old Cobras and Lotuses.”
Regrettably the place was awash in MGs and old Triumphs. They’re also a dime-a-dozen. After 18 bugeye Sprites, you go bug-eyed yourself.
After about an hour of threading sweaty bodies, Killian had to lay down. He was bushed. We had to ask about water, and finally found a small stainless dish under an outside tap at the post-office.
The dogs lapped profusely.
Walking back up the street we passed an autocross set up in a tiny tavern parking-lot. A huge crowd had gathered — who knows what for. How can anyone get interested when the cars juke madly around the tiny lot, and rarely get above 25 mph?
We also passed a place where some guy was firing up his antique Harley-Davidson. Another huge crowd. It sounded like a death-rattle.
We then walked back up to the Bucktooth Bathtub, parked far way along the road in. “Dad looks thirsty too — needs a libation,” some doddering gray-beard said, sagging honey on his arm.
Yeah, water; just like the dogs.
On the way home we stopped at the same parking-area along 14A where Jack and I put on our rain-gear in a downpour.
Stopped there on the way down too. Killian dragged me after a squirrel.
Once home the dogs zonked out.
Took the dogs along. Don’t know as we should have, as it’s a one-and-a-half hour drive, which the dogs aren’t used to, plus it was beastly hot, and we were navigating a tightly-packed crowd of slobbering gray-beards, dapper in their checked bermudas, flip-flops and day-glo NASCAR T-shirts, swilling overflowing tankards of foaming brew.
The cars, over a hundred, were parked cheek-to-jowl along the main drag, angled into the curb. Also tiny parking-lots had been converted to concours, some specific to brands. There also was a grassy knoll dedicated to actual competition-cars.
But I only saw two Ferraris; one winged monster actually driven on an old-course tour. Before the track, Watkins Glen held road-races on the public roads, so “tours” of the original course are held.
Marshals clear the street with shrill police-whistles and hand-held freon horns, and then the cars blast by, up through the gears.
Of note were the Austin-Healeys with Chevy Small-Block power. I even heard an MGA with a Small-Block — how does one lever a Small-Block into an MGA?
We went at the suggestion of my “idle,” City-Editor Tim Belknap, who allegedly edits the entire mighty Mezz, despite previous frequent mention of Executive-Editor Bob Matson (“Boss-Man”) and Managing Editor Kevin Frisch (“K-Man”), both of whom outrank Belknap.
Belknap is one of many editors, which also include Poobah, Queeny, and editorial-page editor Dan Hall. The so-called “Hasidic Jew” (Dave Wheeler) is the Sunday-Editor. There are others.
Belknap manages all the local reporters — as such he is responsible for the local content of the paper: quite a bit of it.
Belknap is also a car-guy; which explains his prior attendance at this show, and jawing with me.
The lack of Ferraris was surprising, and I think the road-car was only a V8. I was told to expect lots of Ferraris.
But the show-car was the best Ferrari: a 275 LM Berlinetta coupe. Except it was black not red.
The owner was regaling some guy about the hand-made nature of Ferraris; that the right-side of his car was one-half inch longer than the left.
He also pointed out a faint ridge in the top of the left-front fender that wasn’t in the right.
His car was a V12, but regrettably I don’t think the 275LM is a Columbo V12; arguably the best motor Ferrari ever built.
American-iron stands out in this crowd like a sore thumb. A giant GTO Pontiac was on display next to a tiny Morgan.
Even Corvettes look a little garish. And then there was the yellow Cyclone, the Barracuda, the ‘53 Studebaker, and (for crying out loud) the ‘49 Plymouth coupe.
“I don’t want to drive all the way down there just to see old Fords. Old Fords are a dime-a-dozen.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll see old Cobras and Lotuses.”
Regrettably the place was awash in MGs and old Triumphs. They’re also a dime-a-dozen. After 18 bugeye Sprites, you go bug-eyed yourself.
After about an hour of threading sweaty bodies, Killian had to lay down. He was bushed. We had to ask about water, and finally found a small stainless dish under an outside tap at the post-office.
The dogs lapped profusely.
Walking back up the street we passed an autocross set up in a tiny tavern parking-lot. A huge crowd had gathered — who knows what for. How can anyone get interested when the cars juke madly around the tiny lot, and rarely get above 25 mph?
We also passed a place where some guy was firing up his antique Harley-Davidson. Another huge crowd. It sounded like a death-rattle.
We then walked back up to the Bucktooth Bathtub, parked far way along the road in. “Dad looks thirsty too — needs a libation,” some doddering gray-beard said, sagging honey on his arm.
Yeah, water; just like the dogs.
On the way home we stopped at the same parking-area along 14A where Jack and I put on our rain-gear in a downpour.
Stopped there on the way down too. Killian dragged me after a squirrel.
Once home the dogs zonked out.
posted by BobbaLew at 8:50 AM
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