Blood, rust, smoke, fire, sweat, beer: It sounds like the makings of a really bad ’70s Kris Kristofferson movie, something featuring motorcycles and a roadside bar in the Southwest: a wide camera angle reveals a cerulean sky dappled with clouds, the center focus on a grizzled, dirty Kristofferson riding center-line on his Norton.
You probably know that old quote about 2002s, “I drove it until it was just too rusty to save.” Well, here’s a new idea for what to do when it gets to that point: Build your own BMW 2002 gasser.
With the Car Of Your Dreams raffle now under way, I am a little miffed, because I am not eligible, being a paid contractor for the Club. Neither are the National Office staff or anybody serving on the Board of Directors, because we don’t want anybody to think we’re dealing from the bottom of the deck or favoring our cronies.
An inky black dot in the distance: a little closer: topless, hard on the brakes—curves. The streak of obsidian pours into a downhill right-hander. Redline; the naked wail of a straight six follows the blur back up and out of the short valley. Unmistakably labeled E93 on the license plate, the first 335i convertible of the year has sprouted.
My mom called me a dork before I even knew what the term meant. At a formative age, I turned to that big red book on the top shelf and was even more confused: a whale’s WHAT?! But in her nurturing mind, it was a term of endearment, a way for her to show me that by being a dork, I was superior in intellect from those around me—or at least this is what I’m telling myself now.