We interrupt this feed of wonderful cars to give you news that the latest installment of sludgo’s Mile Markers will be postponed until next week. That’s the bad news. The good news is that we will have a new edition of sludgo’s Riding Shotgun interview series ready to publish early next week. Please subscribe to the Mile Markers page to make sure you don’t miss out on either!
And now back to your regularly scheduled auction pages.
BaT member gear-ku is a real old-timer who joined the site back in December 2007! He was genuinely surprised when I tracked him down and asked if I could Ride Shotgun with him for the third installment of this series. Told him we could go anywhere he wanted to go. He said his activity on the site had slowed, but he still visited regularly. I told him I missed his haiku and he gave an easy laugh. Shrugged his shoulders and told me to hop in. I didn’t hesitate and a conversation about all things ensued, ranging from engine fires to the makings of a good nightclub backline to the joy of finding your Forever Car. Hope you enjoy the ride!
-sludgo
It seems like yesterday that we were celebrating sludgo’s 100th Mile Marker, but in fact it was four years ago. Since then, he’s continued to grace our pages with his special brand of wit, wisdom, and humanity. Today, we’ll be publishing Mile Marker 200, and that’s cause for celebration. It’s been an amazing journey that shows no signs of slowing down, and in fact his role on BaT has recently expanded with the new Riding Shotgun interview series.
We are planning a special surprise to celebrate sludgo’s 200th installment of Mile Markers. Because of this, publication is delayed by one week—you’ll see #200 next Friday, August 29. Stay tuned!
I inched the TT up to the starting line, stopping when the steward waved his hand. I squinted through the windshield at the course laid out in front of me—hundreds of orange traffic cones dutifully showing the way I should go and the way I shouldn’t. The goal was to complete all the twists and turns and short straights as fast as I could without hitting any of the cones or spinning out or worse. It would be a race against the clock, the most ruthless opponent of any racer, and my heart was pounding. I shook my head clear, reminding myself it was my first autocross ever and that I had to lowball my expectations. Temper my approach. Drive within my limits. Not be too eager or aggressive. Rely on my half-century of driving fast in all sorts of cars and conditions and let the seat of my pants be my guide. Easy peasy, right? Right. So I looked over at the steward. Gave him a thumbs-up and he gave me a nod back then signaled the starter to switch on the Christmas tree. Gulp.
A week ago I was in the TT and rolled up next to a biker sitting at a stoplight. Three in the afternoon and hotter than blazes here in mid-August southeast Idaho. He was riding solo on a late-model Fat Boy—black on black. Was wearing what Hog riders all seem to wear: an unbuttoned leather vest over a tattered black t-shirt, leather chaps over worn and torn black jeans and a set of scuffed and scarred steel-toed boots. No helmet, of course, just a do-rag, but I saw a beanie-cap strapped to his rear pillion rack—in case he had to go to Oregon, I supposed. His face was mostly hidden by a bristly salt-and-pepper grandpa beard and his eyes were shielded by mirrored wrap-around Terminator shades. His skin looked thick and weathered and was deeply tanned, so deep it took a moment for me to see his arms were slathered shoulder-to-wrist with an ornate selection of tattoos. Flames and skulls and dragons and tombstones inscribed with initials and dates and symbols I didn’t recognize. He noticed me noticing him and gave me a big tobacco-stained snaggle-toothed grin then flashed me the peace sign. I flashed him one back and the light went green and he twisted the throttle and dropped the clutch and roared off to parts unknown. And as I watched him disappear into the shimmering horizon, somewhere inside my head Steppenwolf suddenly started to play.
This is Part Three of a three-part series. Click the links to read Part One, and Part Two.
It was a warm and sunny June morning and I’d been home about a week and a half. I was out in the garage thinking I should take advantage of the weather and give Mom’s RAV4 a good wash because it needed it. Had gotten dusty sitting in front of the McBungalow since I got back and was still grimy and buggy from the trip, but just as I was getting motivated my phone rang. Saw it was the eldest so I picked up. Knew immediately by his voice that something was brewing. He pretended-normal for a minute, asking me all the usuals. How I was. What I’d been up to. If the dogs were okay. And I answered him with all the usuals. Fine. Not much. Yup. Then he paused and cleared his throat. Said he’d just gotten off a phone call from Grandma—the Beehive—and needed to talk to me about a couple things. So I walked over to my workbench and sat down on my shop stool. “Okeydoke, kiddo. Shoot.”