by Barbara Spear
I have a lot of time to think these days, time to remember and reminisce. Though in some people's minds I'm very active, I feel like I've been retired for several years now. It's just not like it was when I was younger.
I remember vividly the day I left the Corvette factory. After the last bolts were installed and the inspectors gave their stamp of approval, I traveled on a double-decker car carrier to the dealership. By the time I arrived, I was road weary and covered with dust and grime. The folks at the dealership were great! They gave me a bath and polished my chrome until it mirrored their reflections flawlessly. The owner and his top salesman took me for a ride and gave me my first chance to really cut loose and show my stuff. My stay at the dealership was brief. I'd been ordered for a young salesman who took me home almost immediately.
My first owner really loved me. He and his new bride were always taking me for rides on warm sunny afternoons. My favorite trips, however, were the Saturday night jaunts to the local drive-in. The movies were always B-grade horror flicks about invading aliens; and the action on my leather was always better than that on the screen. Most of the other cars at the drive-in had back seats -- but this couple knew how to improvise! I stayed with my first owner for almost three years. I knew something was wrong when his wife began to get plump and they began talking about selling me. Finally, my owner took me out for one last ride. He was very sad and explained that with a baby on the way, I just wasn't practical anymore. Anymore? What did he mean anymore? I'd never been practical, that wasn't my style! But I never got a chance to argue my point.
My second owner was a speed freak. He spent hours adjusting everything under my hood, feeding me strange liquids, and adding fancy accessories to make me run faster. On Saturday nights, we'd cruise to the local ice cream shop and wait for the action to begin. I was always tense as I pulled up to the line and waited for the flagman's signal. When it came, I'd roar off giving everything I had to get to the finish line first. There was something about the cool night air rushing along my sides and the cheers of the crowd at the finish line that made my pistons pound with excitement. I didn't win every race --though I did win most. And I took my share of battle scars --a blown tire, a blown engine, a few stones in the headlights -- but it was worth it. My first owner had loved my looks; this owner appreciated the power I could deliver.
But good things always come to an end, and eventually I was parked permanently in an old shed behind my owner's house. I spent years there and it was a miserable existence. Spiders crawled under my canvas cover and built nests. I must have been home for several generations of arachnids. A couple of field mice moved in one winter and made themselves comfortable in my seat stuffing. Though they were destructive little critters, they were good company; and I celebrated along with them when their babies were born.
Just when I thought I was going to be a permanent residence for furry creatures, the shed door opened and my owner entered. He was accompanied by a well-dressed gentleman in a business suit and a young fellow in greasy jeans and a work shirt. The oddly paired couple looked me over carefully, then made my owner an offer. I was insulted! They offered him a fraction of what I was worth! And he took it! The odd couple then backed up an open trailer and pulled me onto it. My now-former owner tossed some boxes of grime covered parts onto my seats, then smiled as we drove off.
Having spent so much time cooped up in a dark shed, it took me a while to adjust to the bright sunlight. When I did, I noticed that the cars we passed looked very different from those I'd last seen. They were boxy and lacked shiny chrome bumpers like mine. I scanned the road for another Corvette and eventually I spotted one. What a disappointment! It too lacked my curves and chrome.
Eventually, we arrived at a garage where I was unloaded and taken inside. Other Corvettes were there, in various states of disassembly. I was scared. It suddenly occurred to me that I was about to be parted-out -- a fate worse than the crusher.
My fears were unwarranted. Oh, they did disassemble me –all the way down to a bare frame. But within a few months, the skilled fellows in greasy jeans had put me back together to showroom perfection. I was thrilled! Now that I was back in mint condition, I was ready to hit the road again. And hit the road I did, but not quite as I'd expected.
The well-dressed gentleman with the business suit came to the garage and supervised while the guys who'd fixed me up loaded me into a trailer. The trailer was immaculately clean and smelled new, but once the doors were closed, I had flashbacks to my years in the shed. I broke into a cold sweat.
When the doors opened again, the well-dressed man -- now in a polo shirt and casual pants -- became agitated. He kept shouting "condensation." The young fellow in jeans quickly mopped the sweat from my body and reassured his partner that I'd be okay.
They carefully unloaded me and a crowd of admirers gathered. I was excited. I figured that someone was finally going to take me for a ride.
Instead, two men with clipboards and matching shirts began to examine me. I suspected that I was going up for sale again.
The fellow in jeans climbed in and began pushing and pulling on everything. Headlights, brake lights, signal lights, horn, radio... what the heck was going on?
Finally one of the guys with the clipboard climbed in and they took me for a ride. It wasn't a very exciting ride, nor a long one -- though I did get to show my stuff a little on a straight-a-way. But almost before I got started, we were back at the trailer and in I went. I didn't know it then, but I'd just passed my PV.
The next morning, my two owners took me out of the trailer and drove me to a wonderful gathering of Corvettes. They parked me between two of my contemporaries. It was the first time I'd seen any of my generation in years -- and they looked great. I watched as a group of clipboard toting fellows gathered in front of us, then began inspecting us. I listened to their comments with amusement. This wasn't right, that was missing, my seatbelts looked wrong. What did they know? Had they traveled through the assembly line with me? As each pair of inspectors finished groping, they carefully marked their clipboards. Both of my owners paced nervously. Now I was sure they planned to sell me.
But I was wrong again. I learned that the inspectors were judges and I'd met with their approval -- despite my so-called flaws. I'd earned some kind of an award. My owners seemed pleased, so I figured I'd be rewarded with a nice spin on a country road. No such luck.
Even before they celebrated, I was crated in the trailer. And so began the third chapter in my life.
I now spend my time being trailered from one show to another. Occasionally I get to take a short ride, but usually the only driving I do is from my trailer to my parking space. I can't complain about my treatment; I'm always kept dry, shiny, and clean--and I almost never feel a drop of rain on my body. The company is good too. I see some of the same Corvettes at every show and there are always a few newcomers. We all look great, but those of us who've been on the circuit for a while run rough.
If I can believe my owner's comments, I'm worth a lot more than I ever was before. Maybe to him, but not to me. I miss the tension and excitement of the Saturday night races. I miss the long afternoon drives. And yes, I even miss those Saturday nights at the drive-in.
I keep hoping that someday, one of the young fellows who stops to admire me at a show and says, "what a great machine, can you imagine what that could do on the road," will buy me so I can show him that there's more to this little Corvette than good looks.
Copyright 1996 Barbara Spear
