A couple weeks ago, rather than slog through the Sunday bus schedule, I drove the E86M to work, braving Capitol Hill street parking and rain. Heavy hydraulic steering, stiff suspension, shitty visibility. All less than ideal ingredients for a city car, but its small footprint and the urgency with which it responds to inputs make up the deficit.
I took the long way home and just before crossing over the 15th Ave W overpass, I slid in behind an E46 wagon with a roof rack. From the stop before the bridge, he launched hard, spitting spray and road grime. Still without much heat in the tires, I gave chase, keeping smooth inputs as a mantra. The S54 howled its call and we ducked away from the arterial to the industrial side streets. The rain and spray from the wagon's tires kept the wipers at work. We whipped our way past yachts, working boats, and marine supply yards. When the wagon peeled off onto a side street, I dropped the window and gave a wave, slightly unsure if we had been playing or I had given them a scare.
These moments, small vignettes of fast driving, like the flash of an empty on-ramp, that bump the pulse up and zero in focus, remind me why I love motoring. It's easy to forget in a city like this, sitting on a bus or worse, working the clutch foot in bumper to bumper traffic. There are others like me, sometimes I just have to go looking.
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