ViperInBlack
Enthusiast
- Joined
- Oct 5, 2004
- Posts
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I watched the development of the C6 Corvette on DirecTV.
I noted the designer driving down the road, talking to the camera, shifting through the gears as one would with a Toyota Corolla six speed.
The cabin was largely silent.
The car looked like a last gen. Camaro with headlights suspiciously borrowed from another branded vehicle.
Corvette people are...er...different. I was one once. It is not that they are better, nor worse...but they do like automatic transmissions and cup holders...and hats.
The American public is more likely to seek out the new Corvette or new Mustang than it would a Viper. Both are docile and have a rather middle class acceptance of rebellion...like eating a Big Mac without the bun.
You can nap when you drive a Corvette, listening to new age music, talk on your cell phone, get out of your car and smile at the two people in the parking lot who like your car.
By contrast, when you arrive in a Viper, you have been abused. Your legs are tired, your back hurts, you have no idea where the front end was going, but it made a lot of noise getting there. Your hands ache from the death grip on the wheel with indentations in your palms from your Rosary beads.
People have glared, stared, waved, smiled and cursed at you (I like the latter group). You have cranked up the radio but the cabin noise is already at the pain threshold, and you cannot tell if this is Zakk Wylde or Billy Joel.
You cannot change radio stations because the ominous presence of eleventy seven guages keeps you continually checking numbers.
You feel like you need to be basted before you dry out from the heat.
You exit the car attempting to muster "cool", but in reality, all you feel is pain and concern. You pretend that the pops and clicks are the engine cooling, but in reality you know it is your knees and pelvic joints.
People stare in the parking lot. They have no idea what it is. They saw one on a magazine once..."made by Ford isn't it?" They have a friend, who's friend's sister-in-law's husband had someone with one at work..." So, they feel they can bond with you.
You worry that some have keys and bad intentions.
You walk away from the car, feeling that you have accomplished a mission. You also feel that something between a Bronze Star and Olympic Silver should be awarded.
Does not matter...you are again out of gas.
I noted the designer driving down the road, talking to the camera, shifting through the gears as one would with a Toyota Corolla six speed.
The cabin was largely silent.
The car looked like a last gen. Camaro with headlights suspiciously borrowed from another branded vehicle.
Corvette people are...er...different. I was one once. It is not that they are better, nor worse...but they do like automatic transmissions and cup holders...and hats.
The American public is more likely to seek out the new Corvette or new Mustang than it would a Viper. Both are docile and have a rather middle class acceptance of rebellion...like eating a Big Mac without the bun.
You can nap when you drive a Corvette, listening to new age music, talk on your cell phone, get out of your car and smile at the two people in the parking lot who like your car.
By contrast, when you arrive in a Viper, you have been abused. Your legs are tired, your back hurts, you have no idea where the front end was going, but it made a lot of noise getting there. Your hands ache from the death grip on the wheel with indentations in your palms from your Rosary beads.
People have glared, stared, waved, smiled and cursed at you (I like the latter group). You have cranked up the radio but the cabin noise is already at the pain threshold, and you cannot tell if this is Zakk Wylde or Billy Joel.
You cannot change radio stations because the ominous presence of eleventy seven guages keeps you continually checking numbers.
You feel like you need to be basted before you dry out from the heat.
You exit the car attempting to muster "cool", but in reality, all you feel is pain and concern. You pretend that the pops and clicks are the engine cooling, but in reality you know it is your knees and pelvic joints.
People stare in the parking lot. They have no idea what it is. They saw one on a magazine once..."made by Ford isn't it?" They have a friend, who's friend's sister-in-law's husband had someone with one at work..." So, they feel they can bond with you.
You worry that some have keys and bad intentions.
You walk away from the car, feeling that you have accomplished a mission. You also feel that something between a Bronze Star and Olympic Silver should be awarded.
Does not matter...you are again out of gas.
