(with apologies to Papa Hemingway)Last week I made reference to buying twelve bumpers from a body shop that was getting out of the restoration business. Here’s the longer story.
You may know Chuck Vossler as a Roundel writer or for his presence on bmwblog.com. I say he’s a ringer, sent to the new BMW Performance Center West in order to humiliate his Roundel editor.But a designer beat him to it.
Today we talk about managing disorder: I’m doing a terrible job at it. Although I adore my garage, it is small for everything I try to do in it—a shoebox 31 feet long by seventeen feet wide, with a single-width roll-up door at one end. I can put one car in the left rear corner by backing it in with a dog-leg turn, then put in two cars—two short cars—nose-to-tail; if absolutely necessary, I can put the second of those on roller dollies, slide it to the left, and then squeeze in a fourth car.
There it was: Like the bold setting sun, it dipped into the valley below, a brilliant flash of crimson on the black backdrop of asphalt. I was sure that one had crossed my path before; maybe it was just in a picture—if so, then surely that image was a poor substitute for the in-the-metal revelation that drove past me. The scarlet rocket was an “old” E92 M3 coupe, complete with sinister blacked-out wheels. Melbourne Red? Maybe, but it lacked the shine and brilliance I associate with BMW’s metallic hues. Rarest-of-the-rare Frozen Red? Perhaps. Whatever the color, it was gorgeous.
I was helping a friend who just bought a ’73 2002tii. Beautiful car: Colorado orange, five-speed, Panasport wheels, air-conditioning. He’d just had it trucked in from California, and, other than flat-spotted tires and a low brake pedal, it didn’t seem to need much.