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.
As an adult, I have found that crying and kicking my feet isn’t always going to work when I want to have my way. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work. This typically happens when I’m either in traffic, short on money for bills, or dealing with some sort of illness. This time around, it was a combination of all three.