She’s a lotta hot car: Our lapis blue 2002 Porsche Boxster S.
The first summer we had her, Pat is driving us home from a leisurely Sunday dinner at my boss’s house. We pull up to a stop light – front row – at Tatum and Bell. Next to us pulls up a Camaro, and beside him, a Plymouth Prowler arrives late to the party. The Camaro revs his engine. The Plymouth follows suit. The windows slide down on either side of the Camaro and in a high falsetto, the driver says, “LOTTA HOT CARS, HEEEEEEEERE.”
I buckle my seatbelt and pull my ballcap close around my ears. “Just don’t miss a shift,” I offer to Pat, who is already working his grip on the steering wheel and glancing up at the traffic light above us.
GREEN! GREEN! GREEN! The Camaro – good ol’ American V8 love – thunders out of the blocks, and by the time we hit fourth, we’ve passed him. The Plymouth an afterthought at the stoplight. We’re braiding traffic, shaking the Camaro and running out of lane, when out of no where a Mitsubishi Eclipse with a neon undercarriage flashes past. I believe in street parlance, this means, “It’s on.” Pat guns through the shoulder, cutting off a poky Volkswagen, to get to the on-ramp.
Pat has the accelerator pinned to the floor but we can’t pull the Eclipse. In the wind, we smell nitrous. His plates read “SPOOL UP.” The MItsubishi finally slows to give us a hearty thumbs up, as we coast back down to the speed limit in search of an exit so we can vanish into the night. He’ll have to tell all his buddies: He beat a Porsche.
Though we’ve had many adventures – both inside and outside the law – it’s time to say, “Bye-Bye,” to our sweet girl. The lease is up tomorrow on our “lotta hot car.”