I was driving home from dinner with a friend in the MG, and as we
crossed a set of railroad tracks, she asked me why I clutched when we
crossed the tracks.
She assumed that it was the same as young children holding their breath
as they cross a bridge. In essence, she was right.
It was five years ago when I first took my MG to college. It was the
last day of the Spring semester, and I was about to leave to go home for
a summer of drudgery. I was going to the mall to say good bye to a
friend, and as I crossed a set of railroad tracks, the driveshaft broke
loose from the rear end and pretzled itself underneath the car.
Dad had to drive down with a trailer and tow me home. It was not the
first, nor was it the last time I came on on the 'hook'. I was trying
to prove to my parents that the MG was reliable, and all my efforts were
undone by a set of railroad tracks.
It's obvious I still live with the scars. Apparently, owning one of
these cars scars you for life. That's why I still clutch as I go over
Thomas James Pokrefke, III