FIRST RIGHTS

CREASEY, H. REG

P.O. BOX 762

CARSON CITY NV 89702‑0762

Me and My AUSTIN HEALEY

By

H. Reg Creasey

It is one of those days when you wake early and feel good. As the sun broke over the eastern mountains and the rays raced across the valley floor you could feel the magic. The cold, crisp air, heavy with frost and laden with particulate hung in layers and tried to capture the suns radiant beams as they dashed onward ‑‑ seeking out the shadows left by the winter night.

I stood looking from my bedroom window, feeling the warmth of the sun, watching the illumination of the Sierra Nevada. It sure is going to be a grand and glorious day; I thought out loud, not one to be wasted on household chores. It definitely is a day for a drive.

I own a 1962 Austin Healey 3000, Mark‑II, (BN7 for those in the know), a six cylinder 2912cc. My little two‑seater with triple S.U. HS4 carburetters is all black except for a red flash along the sides which accent the body lines between the front and rear wheels. The interior is red and black, of course! When I removed the cover, the car is looking exceptionally clean; a little dusty but no REAL DIRT. I checked and topped off all the fluids, something all Healey owners do simply as a matter of fact. Most of my friends merely get in their cars, turn on the ignition and drive away. Not me. I take my time giving the car a good once over from bonnet to boot. By the way, the car has been completely maintained and is mostly in original condition.

I originally purchased the car in 1971. The interior was in the process of being restored. The body was in terrific shape, but the brakes and anything that touched the wheels were rusted and in need of replacement. The engine was working and original. Now for the killer! All he wanted was $ 300.00 dollars, if I would haul the car away. I did. Where was I? Oh, yes. It is Saturday December 1, 1990.

I checked the weather channel and the forecast is for a clear, below normal temperature day and Sunday promised to be just as magnificent. Sacramento weather forecast promised more of the same.

I dressed in comfortable clothes. My plan is to create the layered effect. As I gained altitude I would need to cover up‑‑then, as I cruised down the western slope of the Sierras I would need to uncover, that is "peel" off the excess layers. While driving along I would need to be able to slip clothes on and off without hindering my complete and absolute control of the car. The car has only about 4 inches of ground clearance and even the smallest rocks on the road are a potential problem for my oil pan and exhaust system. As those of you who have driven early model British sports cars know, there is no latitude for sudden movements of the steering wheel or for taking your eyes off the road for even the slightest distraction. For those of you who don't know, lane changes are a simple matter of a slight movement of the steering wheel.

My travel plan is to drive on highway 50 toward Lake Tahoe over the mountain pass called Spooner Summit, elevation approximately 7150 feet, then turn north along State Route 28 to Incline Village, Nevada. From there, west to Kings Beach, California, then north on California Route 267 over Brockway Summit, elevation 7199 feet, into Truckee, CA, and over Donner Pass, elevation 7087 feet. I top off the gas tank, and then pull out of Carson City at 1:30 p.m.

The drive up Spooner is exhilarating but only the tip of the iceberg for what lay ahead. The car sounded terrific. The exhaust system is emitting that very special deep‑throaty growl. Neither a purr nor a roar, but that perfect pitch that lets you know you are at the wheel of something robust and unique. Working the gears, settling into the seat; checking the gauges, seatbelt, mirror, steering wheel position; passing a semi‑‑"Oh Damn!" look at the speedometer‑‑the needle is just passing through 65 on its way up. I am in a 55 zone! Out of the corner of my eye I see a Nevada State Trooper parked along side of the road. My hope is that he couldn't see me for the wheels of the semi‑‑what the heck, I'm on a motoring adventure‑‑let 'er roll.

The drive around the north shore of Lake Tahoe is always spectacular, but today it is extraordinary. The color of the lake is steel blue and the sky is a light grayish‑blue. The combination is complimentary; each seemed to enhance the other. This created an incongruous imagery. The trees, fences, buildings and rocks appeared to be three‑dimensional. I know they are and so do you. But in this light their appearance is so enhanced it is almost surrealistic. Through the trees I glimpsed the reflection of the distant mountain tops. For this time of year, there is some snow, not much, enough, to let me know that it is winter. Heaven must be like this; at least I hope it is!

Onward! Pressing onward! The air is cold and invigorating. I clear Incline Village with only light traffic and the signal lights in my favor. Brockway is a cinch. As I passed through the lowlands along the Truckee River the colder air bites into my face and hands. Onward! I drive past Truckee and through the agricultural checking station. Onward!

There, before me is Interstate 80 and Donner Pass. The road is clear, bare and dry. Over the summit I put on another layer! The long winding roadway down through the foothills and into Sacramento begins. The air is cold and I now have on every piece of clothing I packed, I planned well because I am very comfortable. Down, past the first group of cars. Into a curve, across a flat, up a rise, then down again. As I pass cars the people honk and wave. Sometimes they give me thumbs up, at other times the give me the hang‑ten sign. Mostly they all smile. The feeling inside is incredibly satisfying. There is a sense of driving yet there is a detachment. I am one with the car. Yet I am also one with the road and the trees and the sun. This is almost Zen-ish. I felt like I am part of the ether. Into another curve. The tyres strain and the g‑force pulls me against the door. Just as I think the car can't hold the road any longer we clear the banked curve and shoot out into a flat straight‑away.

A young man in a cream colored Toyota Celica decides to tag along. Like the others on the road today he had a smile‑‑there is a sparkle in his eye‑‑I'm sure that is what I saw. He soon dropped back, never to be seen again.

Another curve. Another dip. Another rise. I start to feel the heat from the engine on my legs, this tells me that we were losing altitude, it is getting warmer. I peeled off an outer layer of clothes and am jolted by the cold mountain air as it attacked my exposed ears and neck.

The car is running the best it ever has; it likes this cold, heavy air. The temperature gauge is staying right on 190º and the oil pressure is posing on 38 pounds. The sound of the exhaust is exceptional, almost unearthly in its tone. Brake hard! Change lanes. Gear down. Change lanes and gear up as we head up another rise, screaming ever forward along the highway. On the straight‑aways the car vibrates and shudders as the suspension system reacts to every rut in the roadway. There is a constant quiver in the steering wheel. Not bad by old standards, unacceptable in the new cars with their computerized steering and suspension system. But I have the feel of the road; every bump is my bump. Every crack and blemish is my crack and blemish. Every ridge tugs at the tyres and tries to restrain them. But the car wants to fly, to move and flow. It is like a cat with its paws straining to catch and hold firm ground so the power of its legs can catapult the animal closer to its prey.

We drop in elevation. I peel off another layer of clothes. Traffic groups up signaling that we were getting close to a town. No it can't be! But it surely is! Traffic congestion is a sure sign of civilization. Is it really the END? Must this be over? Like the man once said, "This, too, shall pass." I guess it had. Darn! I changed lanes for the last time and headed onto an off ramp, there to face the dreaded traffic signal. This time it represented more than a mere traffic control device. It signifies the end of my run.

But for this day it is me and my Austin Healey. My feelings are in turmoil ‑‑ this may never happen again ‑‑ it hadn't happened before. Yet there is something inside me that says, "Maybe, just maybe, there will be another day, just as gorgeous and just as compelling as this." I stop in front of my daughter and her husband's house. I look at my watch 3:00 p.m. The odometer reads 126 miles. WOW not bad 126 miles in 90 minute not bad for a vintage car, not bad at all!

May your next motoring adventure be as fulfilling and satisfying as this one was for me?

P.S. Did I mention that I didn't take time to put on the hood? In other words I made this December passage with the top off. For all of you out there who are not into old British terms, hood refers to the cloth top, bonnet refers to the hood over the engine, and boot is the other name for the trunk. The carburetor is spelled carburetter and my handbook does really spell tires, tyres.

Keep the shiny side up and the rubber side down!