Below is a car-themed poem I wrote last spring as part of a lot of writing I’ve been doing since Nancy died last January. It is based on an extraordinary early morning drive Nancy & I shared in the summer of 1964 in our then new Triumph Spitfire when we were in Europe for the summer to visit her family, my attending a summer semester in Salzburg, and touring on weekends.
In our second year together
we were in Europe for the summer.
I was attending the Kokoschka Schule in Salzburg
and we were visiting Nancy’s family in southern Germany.
We were in our new ride
ensconced side by side
on an unknown secondary road
early in the morning
traversing tarmac rapidly.
Shifting, braking, toying with the wheel
to keep the Dunlap bias plies from losing grip.
Right foot feathering the throttle,
finding a sense of the road beneath us.
Moving fast through early morning
showers and intermittent ground fog
loving the wind in our hair, mist on our faces.
In the moment she and I
on what we joking called our dawn patrol.
A crescendo decrescendo of the snarling exhaust
heel and toeing all the while.
Choreographing apex to apex
poetry in motion for those in the know
in that little green Spitfire Roadster which was our pride.
Our camping gear all stowed before break of dawn
we were on the road through Swabian hill country
heading back south towards the Alps.
Tires singing in harmony with the road.
Saying little to one another, there was no need toas this was our creed.
Darting in and out of recurring ground fog
adding allure to the song of the road.
Throttling along a small winding river
the undulating pavement providing rhythm
to the shear joy of down shifting, then accelerating,
braking, then back on the gas.
When ahead in the fog suddenly seeing
brake lights of another car, off-white,
hard to see through its rooster tail.
It too in its own analogous dance with the road,
a big Healey, suggesting more fun.
Changing everything, no longer just us and the road
thus began a thrusting and paring, matching wits,
wheels and skills.
Adding exuberance to this
ever subtle dance of car and road.
The Healey had the advantage of
more horsepower, maybe its driver
might have greater familiarity with his car.
Ours was still new like ourselves
in those long ago days.
On and on we engaged in our rolling
eight-wheeled, two-vehicle duet.
In cadence with one another, in tune with the road,
and reveling in meeting by chance.
As if out of some mythic scenario,
entrancing us, imprinting being there
alive on that gripping early morning
Swabian ride.
And then, the road opened up to a longer straight
the big Healey pulled ahead decisively into the fog
only to slow round the next big sweeping bend,
its left directional light blinking.
There didn’t appear to be any intersection,
so I slowed too in caution.
No, it was pulling into the puddled, cinder-paved lot of
an older looking, wayside guest house,
We followed, parked parallel, de-car’d,
snapped on tonneau covers,
and strode into the welcoming, warm guest house to see if
they were serving breakfast.
Indeed they were.
It was still early and we were the only ones there.
With polite nods, our road dance
partners and ourselves
took separate tables.
Breaking our morning fast, we
thoroughly enjoyed
a well prepared, hearty breakfast of
two eggs up, topped with tomato, green pepper,
Bavarian ham slices and all the fixings.
The big Healey couple finished before us.
On rising from their table, they paused looking at us, nodded politely
and left with knowing smiles,
knowing that we all had just experienced a memorable dice
with one another while dancing a beckoning road.
If, when, and where my co-driver and I
can fire up another ride together,
I hope there are challenging roads and roadsters
making snarling, barking sounds,
smelling of hot rubber, oil and petrol,
enchanting, small, two-seaters beckoning
us to engage in new motoring adventures.
Don Perdue is a long-time VAE member and lives in New Haven, VT.
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