#the walk under the highway overpass and the streets around that area were for real great IMO

[wakingfromthewater]

I can't believe I fucking walked all the way to Al-Azhar under that highway overpass just to look at it and I didn't even know I was allowed to go in. Absolutely outrageous. I need to go back.

[paullicino]

The Tower

The first time I saw the tower was from the highway. I don’t judge distances so well, but it must’ve been less than a mile away.

We were speeding off to some hellish department store or other, the sort that stock everything without any of it being any good, because Catherine wanted to bring popcorn to the party we were crashing.

The highway offers views of very little between concrete overpasses and pro-life billboards, because it cuts into the hills like an asphalt ravine. There isn’t exactly scenery along that route, either. It’s all condos or woodland still petrified by the winter.

The party was bad. Catherine and I dug ourselves into one corner of an apartment that we could tell hadn’t been properly cleaned for over a year and I sneezed over and over. It was the sort of place where you find the table has just been cleared, but there’s layers of dust or grime under the furniture, behind the television or around the toilet. Catherine really wanted to go because she had a serious crush on the woman who lived there, or did until she ran her finger across a shelf and showed me what it had collected.

The second time I saw the tower, I asked about it. We weren’t taking the same route, but we were headed about the same way, off to collect some secondhand furniture I’d offered to help load. Catherine said it was an old lookout tower, something for visitors to scale, but I couldn’t imagine what it would look over. It barely topped the trees around it and would only offer views of somnambulant suburbia. It was only as we were driving back the other way that I realised we’d probably been along a few of these roads many times over. I asked why we’d not seen it more but Catherine shrugged and said that her eyes were always on the road anyway. I tried looking past her during what I thought was the right part of the journey, but a thick fog was settling and the most I got to see was an ad telling me how large a foetus was after six weeks.

I wasn’t from around there, but being on the road is good for someone who writes travelogues. “Find curious nuggets of local history while you’re out there,” my agent had said. His voice crackled on the phone like he was broadcasting through an old time radio.

I asked Dani about it. She’s lived in that town all her life and knowing everything about the area is a point of pride for her. She said it might well have been part of the old state park or fairground or something. She said the place had been a huge deal when she was young, that Goldwater had visited it at some point, but that it closed sometime in the early eighties. A bunch of similar things had opened out of town and they were all bigger and better. Then, a gang of kids had broken in and burned the whole place down a few years later, leaving only the tower standing.

I said that the tower didn’t look fire damaged to me, but I suppose it must have been lucky. Dani mentioned that there’d been one of those classic, entirely wooden roller coasters close by and that there’s absolutely no trace of it now.

I couldn’t imagine anything catching light in that place. I’d watched winter crawl on like an alabaster purgatory, to eventually be replaced by an eternally dribbling, gurgling thaw. The overwhelming sense that you get from this place is of dampness.

--

It was Tom who confirmed for me where the tower stood, on a slight rise on the edge of where the interstate meets the new route into town. It’s dead land nowhere near anything any more, unless you count a water treatment facility as interesting. It would also explain why it’s only visible from certain approaches, thanks to several dips in the highway and the height of the shivering trees.

I loved the roof of the thing. It was the kind of mottled green that copper turns when you drench it in time. When we were finally passing by once more, I tried to point this out, but Catherine was keeping her eyes simultaneously on a tailgater and a truck that wouldn’t stay in its lane. I took a picture, knowing I only had about a fortnight left in town, but it came out blurry and streaked, all greys merged together.

Then I got caught up in this damn public reading thing and my life become some real stupid bullshit. The faculty couldn’t work out first what time of day my reading was, even what days of the week I should be there. Then some crow-voiced man from the accounting department told me they weren’t sure if the university could pay foreigners or pay into foreign bank accounts. All of this after they booked me as one of the festival headliners.

The literary festival was also where I met Gary. I have a particular prejudice against anyone called Gary, on account of their being called Gary, and this man further justified that. He began the final day’s party (which he constantly referred to as a soiree) with a homophobic opener, then started disparaging travel writers, before arguing with a bunch of us on very petty points of style. He was desperate for me to write a blurb or a quotation for his next book and he would not leave me alone.

He was also local, and when he spoke on how deindustrialisation had radically altered the town, I thought to use all the energy he was hurling at me to find out something about the tower.

He erupted, babbling about some gothic or neo-gothic thing, something probably built before the First World War, and how terrific it was, before I could properly explain what I’d seen and where. He told me I was referring to the old water tower and then insisted that there was a Victorian folly on the spot that I described. Yes, it was a wonderful civic curio, he said, maybe his favourite, but it was dilapidated and all but cut off from any kind of public access now.

I wasn’t convinced and this produced more offence than I expected. He began a flustered effort to find photos to show me, but it was fruitless. At the same time, I tried to find anything that would show what I was talking about, but made no progress either, even when I was able to get some old photos of the state park. His persistence combined with my rapidly-waning patience spoiled what was supposed to be an enjoyable end to the festival and by the close of the evening I was convinced that Gary and I truly hated each other. Still, as the taxis lined up outside, I saw him framed in the faculty doorway, saluting me with a highball in one hand.

“I’ll call you for that blurb, yeah?”

--

I was working in a neighbourhood café when I saw it again. It was my last day in town and the first clear day in a month, the kind of day where you can see for miles.  I’d looked up from my proofs and there it was, as tiny and meek and distinct as a baby’s toenail. Its green top crested the trees and its off-white body, narrow and cylindrical, made it a faux fairytale thing teleported from a foreign, fantasy land.

I worked for a while longer before taking a walk. I went a few blocks in the direction of the tower, but the incline of the street and a few hulking warehouse conversions meant I lost all sight of it very quickly. I tried a couple of parallel streets, but they didn’t offer quite the right perspective. Then, Gary called.

“I read your essay on Anchorage,” he said. “It’s great, except I’m not sure your gold rush dates are right. Actually, a gold rush might not be the right description of it.”

He sounded as didactic as his critiques of Woolfe. “I’m looking at the tower right now,” I lied. “It’s green and white.”

“I’m not sure what that is,” he said. “Maybe it’s the top of the false facade on that Mexican restaurant? I wanted to talk about that blurb.”

“It’s definitely by the water treatment plant.”

“The tower is stone, square and grey,” Gary said. “It wasn’t part of the fair. They incorporated it into the grounds as they built around it, later. Did you know that a bunch of kids tried to burn it down? Why would you try to burn down a stone tower?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. It was cold, the sky had clouded and drizzle was beginning to fall.

--

“I don’t know what that is,” said Tom, when he met me for a beer later. “Gary is talking about some sort of crumbling Victorian thing, sure, which is or was part of some rich dude’s estate. But I don’t know any green tower.”

“White.”

“The state park fair thing is brown. A sort of sandy brown and half wood, half stucco. I don’t know what it is that you’ve seen, but yeah, that guy is full of crap. Did you ask Dani about it? Hey, we can drive round there now if you want, but you won’t see anything in the dark. Unless you want me to park on the highway and then have us climb the fence into the sewage place.”

“It’s okay, I’m flying out tonight.”

“I broke into a power substation once. That was fun.”

“What happened?”

“I got arrested.”

--

Catherine gave me a ride to the airport and a surprise story to go with it. She said she had been dating the untidy apartment woman “against my gut’s better judgement.” Rene, her name was, and she designed magazines. Catherine had started dating her and then she’d almost immediately stopped dating her. It beat any gossip I had.

“That woman’s insecurities are a rudder that steer her away from facing anything. I could see her piloting us both into the rocks of ruin because she was so damn scared, right off the bat.”

I said that someone else’s insecurities are a reef that tears out your keel before you even get to the obvious rocks anyway, before telling her that she should hurry up and finish her damn novel so that Gary and I could call up and pester her for blurbs. Then, Gary called again to ask for his blurb and Catherine damn near died from trying to laugh silently while keeping the car on the road.

“I’ve found your tower,” he said, in that rolling cadence that rarely gave any room for reply. “And once I get a bit closer, I’m going to send you a photo. Then will you send me a blurb?”

“Where are you?”

“I went through an old pedestrian underpass. You wouldn’t know it. So, will you?”

“I’m getting on a plane, Gary,” I said. Shortly after, I got on a plane.

I landed and crawled into a taxi and the book tour that everyone else was excited about started.

--

I slept in a motel that smelled like sour milk, missed my alarm and Catherine woke me with a call at ten the next day.

“Gary’s dead,” she said.

She told me he’d been found at the water treatment place, face-down in the middle of open ground. His phone was in one hand, half-smashed, and the first responders on the scene said it looked like he’d fallen from a great height. She said that everyone at the faculty was very sad. I sat on the end of my bed and failed to invent a good excuse to avoid the day’s signing.

I got a text from Gary a few days later, probably as someone switched his phone back on to examine it. It was a picture message that my phone said was corrupted. The officer who called to clear up some details told me not to worry about it. He asked me lots of things I didn’t know about Gary’s agent. He said there was no tower in the area, but he knew a steeple nearby that had long outlasted its church.

I’ve been driven around to readings and signings the last few days. The weather has thickened and they say it’s unseasonably cold. I’m waiting for everything to hurry up.

I saw the tower from the road again today. I’m two states south.

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[beyondthe49th-blog]

From Married to Mumbai

It's been a year of big changes. Perhaps the biggest of which is getting married this past summer. India has been a long fantasied about travel destination, pretty much, as with most places I want to visit, based solely on the food. It only made sense for it to be our honeymoon destination. I was surprised when people asked where we were going for a honeymoon that our response was often met with incredulity. India has recently seen relative huge success with their tourism campaign Incredible India. I, however, would propose an update: Why India? This was the question I would invariably receive when I told of our plans. To which I would reply, "why not?" If I wasn't asked, "why India?", I was often asked, "is your wife Indian?" No. We just like to travel. This trip is also probably the longest out a trip has been planned. This was both a blessing and a curse, as it meant I had plenty of time to plan our three week sojourn across the massive country, but it also meant I had plenty of time to obsess and stress over every detail. What travelling India, and even planning to travel India, taught me is to go with the flow, roll with the punches, and things have a way of sorting themselves out. After devouring countless guidebooks, travel documentaries, and awful YouTube vlogs for the past 8 months or so, the time finally came to head off to YYZ to start the long journey to Mumbai. I unabashedly told everyone that held some sort of administrative or decision making position we met on this trip that we were on our honeymoon in the hopes of scoring free upgrades or swag. When we got to the check-in counter at British Airways I scored my first success as we received an upgrade to business class for our flight to London. This came with the caveat of flying out on a slightly later flight, but with access to the lounge in Pearson and the arrival lounge in Heathrow, this was only a minor inconvenience. This, however, did leave us with a full day layover in London, but there are certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon than in London. Upon landing in Heathrow we checked out the arrival lounge for a quick bite and a shower to freshen up. There is nothing quite like a shower after a long flight to get you ready for the day ahead. With our carry-on bags in tow, we hopped on the express train into the city and checked out Borough Market at the base of the Shard.

I was all too eager to make the most of our time in London while we were sitting in the departure lounge in Toronto the night before, but now faced with a long day ahead I was less than enthused. My wife, thankfully, convinced me that it was a good idea. We snacked and drank our way around the market for an hour. Highlights included: the best scotch egg I've ever had and fresh oysters paired with a couple glasses of champagne. After having our fill we set up at a Thames side pub for a few pints. The time finally came for us to make the trek back to Heathrow for our flight to Mumbai. 

I became enamoured with India, and specifically Mumbai, from the moment we landed. Having a slight mix-up with the hotel regarding an airport pickup we hopped in a cab and made the long (time-wise, not distance) to our hotel; the iconic Taj Palace at the Gateway of India. Security is high at the hotel, which is more than understandable given the tragic events that took place nearly 10 years ago. However, once bags are scanned and you step inside we were greeted with the elegance and hospitality that remained constant through our stay. After receiving a welcome drink as our check in was taken care of for us, we were shown to our room. Again, my shameless mention of this being our honeymoon paid off in spades when we were shown our upgraded suite. As we entered our room we were greeted by our butler for our stay who gave us the tour of the room, starting with the guest bathroom (while we never entertained guests, a second bathroom is a nice addition), the large living and dining room, our massive bedroom with view of the Gateway of India, large marble bathroom, and second entrance way. After dropping our bags off and scheduling a tour of the hotel for the next day though our butler, we decided to check out the area around the hotel. We didn't venture very far as we were fast approaching 40 hours of travel time since we left Toronto. After a quick shop and some sightseeing, we popped into Leopold's for dinner. Although food was the main draw to coming to India, the portrayal of the country in Wes Anderson's Darjeeling Limited and in Gregory David Roberts' books Shantaram and The Mountain Shadow also were huge influences. Leopold's features heavily in Shantaram so I was very happy to find out first that it was a real place, and second that it was literally a 5 minute walk from the Taj Palace. Leopold's was also targeted during the 2008 terror attacks in Mumbai, and the bullet holes in the wall beside us were an all too real reminder of this. Putting this out of mind, we had our first full meal in India: dal, tandoori chicken, garlic naan and a couple of Kingfisher beers. From the first bite I knew the food was going to live up to the high expectations we had. After devouring the food, we headed back to our room to get some much needed sleep.

The next morning began like many of our days in India would, bright and early. With no solid plan, we decided we would just explore the city, and try to see as many sights as we could. The first stop was Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, a UNESCO designated train station and one of the most ornate and intricate buildings I have ever seen. The is no shortage of criticisms of the British occupation of India, but you cannot deny the influence on architecture is beautiful. Wanting to check out a few sights on the other side, we spoke with and arranged a price for a taxi to take us to Dhobi Ghat, a large outdoor laundry. After hopping in the backseat, however, our driver was pulled out by a policeman in uniform who demanded to see what appeared to be an ID, and after looking it over for a few seconds, preceded to strike the driver in the leg with a baton. I'm not sure exactly what was going on, but knew I wanted no part and decided it was best if we walked for a bit and found a new ride. I'm not sure exactly how I was supposed to respond to that situation, but trying to get involved was probably the wrong decision. After securing a new car, we made the trek through the crazy traffic of Mumbai to Dhobi Ghat. While we didn't enter and walk around (I'm not quite sure if it's open to the public) we were able to get a great vantage spot from the overpass above. Sprawling out below there were lines and lines of drying clothes. Houses, businesses, and even hotels all utilize the laundry services here and the scale and organization required to properly run this operation is uniquely Indian. After snapping a few photos and taking it in, we got back in the cab and agreed on a fee to hire him out for the day to see some more sights: next stop - Haji Ali Dargah, a seaside mosque. What makes Haji Ali Dargah unique is that it is actually not so much seaside, as it is set in the sea. Built maybe 200 yards out in a bay, the mosque is reached by a long pier. However, as the tide comes in, the walkway becomes flooded, and, if you don't time it right, you can be stuck out there for hours until the tide goes out. Unfortunately for us, we were on the cusp of the tide coming in, and not wanting to be stranded, we decided to just take photos from the shore. Our driver had not really understood that we wanted to stop and take photos, so while in traffic told us to just hop out and then meet up with him at the next light. This was easier said than done. After grabbing a couple pictures, We  searched for a while up and and down the street. Just as we were about to give up, we heard a voice shouting and turned to see our driver on the other side of the highway waving his arms frantically. Meeting up with him, he decided that it was probably best to actually park at the sights as opposed to trying to time hopping out in traffic. We agreed. 

Getting a little tired of sitting in traffic, we had the driver drop us off at Girgaum Chowpatty, a beach on Mumbai's Back Bay. Walking along the beach, we stopped for our first street food of our trip. We ordered Pav Bhaji (a buttery curry with buns for dipping) and Bhel Puri (a plate of mixed dried rice and vegetables). The food was amazing and one regret I have of the trip in general is that I didn't try as much street food as I would have liked. After our quick meal, we headed back for the oasis that is the Taj Palace to catch our tour of the hotel. Arriving back with some time to spare, we made a quick stop at the Harbour Bar, the fist bar to be licensed in the city and had their signature cocktail, "From the Harbour since 1933". The story behind the cocktail is long and detailed, but essentially originated in 1933 (as the title suggests) and was served to a sailor from America who was celebrating the end of prohibition back home. It's a pretty involved drink which is prepared over flame table side, and is delicious. After our drink, we met our tour guide who walked us around the grounds of the hotel explaining the history and architecture of the building. The remainder of the day was just spent reading pool side, drinking sweet lime soda under the verandah, and enjoying a massage at the spa. 

The next morning began even earlier than normal, as my wife opted to do sunrise yoga by the pool. Taking advantage of the early hour, I explored around the Gateway of India and the surrounding neighbourhood and enjoyed a rarity of India; peace and quiet. It was great to walk around and get some photos of the Gateway practically empty and catch the sunrise over Mumbai Harbour. After wandering around, I headed back to the Taj to the verandah to enjoy a cup of chai and sweet lime soda. This began a bit of a trend for me on this trip. Pretty much every stop I visited which sold beverages I would order a sweet lime soda- a perfect mix of soda water, lime juice, and syrup. It is incredibly refreshing and a great way to beat the heat in India. After a light breakfast, we made the long journey across the street to the Gateway where we caught a ferry to Elephanta Island.

After about an hour, the ferry docked at Elephanta, a small island in Mumbai Harbour. The island features a number of caves carved out with depictions of Hindu god Shiva and dates back to between the 5th and 6th century. The island also featured a number of animals which I was all too eager to take photos of. We had made the correct decision to get the first ferry over to the island, so the caves were not too busy and it wasn't too hot. After climbing the steps to the top of the mountain, we were wandered through the sprawling caves carved with such detail. This was not only a highlight of Mumbai, but of our whole trip in India.  As we left down the steps, it was noticeably more busy and made a difficult task of fighting the crowds to catch the return ferry to the Gateway. Upon our return we made our way to a clothing store to have some shirts made and scheduled a resizing for when we returned to Mumbai in a few weeks before our flights back home. This was our last night in Mumbai, and I was sure I was already going to miss it. There is so much to see, do, and eat that you could spend weeks here and only experience a fraction of what is on offer. I can't wait to return

[itsworn]

A Week Of Daily Driving, Pie Pickup, And A Goodbye To Conner Assembly In A 2017 Viper ACR Voodoo II

Elana’s Story

The big wing jutted up in the parking lot like a mesa on the edge of Texas flatland. “Drop me off there,” I instructed the airport shuttle driver, and she raised an eyebrow at my schlubby travel clothes and ripped purple suitcase as she opened the bus doors. I was in Detroit for a week of filming with Roadkill, culminating in a Viper plant tour and the Roadkill Nights racing at M1 Concourse. Dodge asked if I needed a get-around car for the visit, and nothing gets you around like a 2017 Viper ACR special edition Voodoo II. The Voodoo first came out as a limited model ACR in 2010, and the 2017 model uses the same glossy black base with accents of red and silver, more black widow spider than snake. “Does Batman know you have his car?” asked my husband when I texted him a photo.

I squeezed my ragged luggage in the trunk and scooted the seat up until I could reach the clutch. I couldn’t really get out easily from that position, but I had a Viper for a week. Why would I ever want to get out? “Oh this car, this car is a man-catching machine!” said the parking lot attendant as I waited for the arm to come up, and she was right. I got two rings waved at me on the highway as I headed for Pontiac, Michigan. “Marry me!” shouted the passenger in a beat-up Cavalier.

Any of you who are regular readers know that if I was in a marryin’ mood, it would be the Viper I’d propose to. I’ve spent some serious daily driver time in various models of the snake, and I’ve enjoyed every second of it. The ACR is a nastier animal than the SRT or GTS configurations. It wanders and argues about low-speed steering changes and uneven lanes. It stops so fast you’ll punch the center display with your downshifting hand if you don’t have a grip on the shifter baseball, and it transmits every pothole and pea of gravel directly to your lower back no matter how many mattresses you’re sleeping on, princess. I loved it anyway, and a good thing, since Freiburger and Finnegan were filming at Milan Dragway, a good 60 miles from my hotel in Pontiac. 120 mile roundtrip for multiple days? Pricey for gas, priceless for joy.

In between commuting to the dragstrip, I also used the Viper for normal activities, like finding the best pie in the area (Achatz Pies in Beverly Hills, MI), creeping it nervously through a thunderstorm, and teaching one of our video guys how to drive stick (he did real good, no clutches harmed). My love for the Viper remained undimmed, and I was happy to get to win a few other people over to it. At the end of the week, Hot Rod Garage host, Tony Angelo, and I managed to fit all our gear into the back, and I offered him the keys for the drive to the airport. “I don’t really like Vipers that much,” he said, but he was willing to give the ACR a try. A few strong pulls later and he was giggling as foolishly as I had been all week. “It’s like a real race car, oh, it’s fun!”

2017 is a bittersweet year for Viper fans. Dodge is ending production, and Viper clubs all over are gathering to pay tribute to the snake. With that intro, let me turn it over to Benjamin Hunting, who took the Voodoo to the closing of Conner Assembly plant–the nest where Vipers are hatched.

Ben’s Story

“What serial number is that one?” I’m asked almost immediately after parking at Detroit’s Conner Ave Assembly Plant and stepping out of my ride for the day. This is the birthplace of Chrysler’s most potent – and most significant – sports car, where Dodge is celebrating 25 years of Viper production, and the front lawn is replete with as many examples of the V10-powered coupe as I’ve ever seen gathered in one place.

“001,” I reply, after hastily checking the dash plaque. This conversation would repeat itself throughout the day, requiring me to repeatedly assert my non-ownership of the black-with-red-striped Voodoo II packages Viper ACR, a one-of-31 edition that loads every single option into the track-ready monster. It’s a testament to the staying power of the Dodge SRT Viper’s over-the-top image that rolling in to a field of over 200 similarly-styled snakes in a Voodoo II package ACR still draws a crowd.

“Oh, I’ve got #006 waiting for delivery next week,” came the reply from the man admiring the car’s “I”LL CUT YOU!” vents on the front fenders and overpass-threatening wing perched on the rear deck. “I’m going to try to see if they’ll let me near it inside the factory. I honestly can’t wait.”

That’s right – they’re still building Vipers here at Conner Ave, although for how much longer is anyone’s guess. If you were to judge by the exuberant atmosphere on this sunny Saturday morning, you’d be hard-pressed to call this gathering a funeral for a friend – or, more accurately, a beloved family member. Dodge may have canceled the Viper after a quarter century of near-continuous production, but judging by the high spirits of the owners gathered here today, the party has no plans of stopping any time soon.

The inside of the plant is almost completely open, letting us wander throughout its massive confines hemmed in only by the yellow safety tape that keeps us from accidentally activating any important Viper-making machinery (or walking out with a souvenir or two). The further down the line you get, the more complete the frames, body panels, and engine assemblies become, culminating in the snake pen at the end of the building where finished rides await the chance to put a smile on the faces of their new owners. I strain to spot Voodoo II #006, but it remains elusive.

Of course, customer cars aren’t the only denizens of Connor Ave, as Dodge has put a number of significant Viper models on display for the faithful. There are Le Mans winners, prototypes, one of the earliest RT/10 models known to still exist, and land speed record holders all sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, along with a single Plymouth Prowler (that easily forgotten son-of-Conner-Ave) tucked way off in a corner. Wall art tracks the development of the Viper from Gen I to Gen V, with unusual, never-produced variants mixed in to catch the eye of the devoted. On my way out the door I overhear an SRT engineer talking about how he snagged one of the six dual-cam VVT Viper engines that were ever built before it could be sent to the scrap yard. As job perks go, that’s a pretty damn good one.

Back on the lawn, it’s time to take a picture and then get this show on the road. After being captured in all their multi-colored glory by the photographer dangling high overhead, most of the cars around me get ready for the next stage in the day’s celebrations, a 15-mile, police-escorted parade from the plant to the M1 Concourse in Pontiac where Roadkill Nights is staging street legal drag races on Woodward Avenue and reserving a paddock just for Viper owners. In a cacophony of choppy cams and flashing blue lights a phalanx of Detroit’s finest sail in on their police bikes, lining up along the side of the road to lead us from the promised land.

Just before getting back into the Voodoo II, I find myself talking to Wes from Maryland, a self-described “military knucklehead” who’s in the middle of transplanting a Gen V body onto a Gen IV frame. “I picked up a wrecked Gen V for $25,000, but I couldn’t get a new frame anywhere,” he tells me. “So I’m here at the plant taking as many pictures as I can of all the chassis and platform details so I can figure out what needs to get cut, stretched, and moved to make everything play nice together.”

He says that ever since he put pictures of the project online, he’s gotten so many questions and messages of support about it that he’s gotten more done in the last 30 days than he did in the first six months. “It was originally a Carbon Edition car, but when I’m done with it it’ll be a T/A.” This fantastic Frankenstein creation will also probably be the most Roadkill Viper on the planet.

Our conversation is cut short by an official looking finger pointed in my direction by someone holding an equally official looking clipboard, directing me to line up two cars behind the Dodge Law Enforcement Viper that’s leading the pack (behind the actual, badge-carrying officers riding in the Dodge Chargers). I’m honored to be at the tip of the fang as we pull out of the assembly plant to begin the slow, raucous, and exceptionally loud convoy to M1. My side mirrors are filled with gearheads of all ages taking pictures and waving from the sidelines, Vipers stretching back as far as the eye can see (it’ll take one and a half hours for all 200 cars to make it to the paddock) police bikes that blaze by with startling regularity to block off side streets and make our lives easier while introducing misery into the weekend commutes of unsuspecting Detroiters.

Suddenly, I’m distracted from the reverie around me by an insist message on the Viper ACR’s gauge cluster. It’s not telling me how awesome the car is, or how incredibly fortunate I am to be given the keys to this beast for a ceremonial cruise: it’s pointing out how stupid I must be to have forgotten to fill the tank before leaving the hotel this morning. LOW FUEL, LOW FUEL the car complains, and it’s with a cold clarity that I realize I’m about to be “that guy” – the one who ran out of gas driving in car he doesn’t even own in a parade of Vipers.

Anxiously, I text Elana, Roadkill EIC and the caretaker of this ACR for most of the previous week to ask how far I can drive with the gas light on. “Maybe 30 miles,” she replies, but at these slow, stop-and-go speeds I can foresee a flatbed in my future should I decide to push my luck. It’s then that fate intervenes. In a bid to bunch up the long trail of cars behind us, the entire parade grinds to a halt at an intersection marked by a Marathon station, its faded logo shining like a beacon to under-prepared idiots like me.

I crank the wheel and screech in to the closest fuel pump, which of course refuses to accept my Canadian credit as a legitimate form of legal tender. Cursing my useless plastic, I run into the gas station where I accost a very confused attendant holding a mop and a bucket. “It’s the car with the giant wing!” I exclaim, stuffing a $20 bill in his hand and spinning on my heel to run back to the pump. Seconds later 91 octane is flowing into the ACR’s greedy tank in my best approximation of a NASCAR pit stop, to the hoots and laughter of genuine Viper owners passing me by at speeds low enough to register the shame on my face.

My twenty bucks spent, the pump clicks and I’m back behind the wheel, angling the ACR’s aero-laden front clip carefully back down onto the street. Eventually, another snake wrangler takes pity on me and a hole opens up in the line, letting me sneak into the parade, tail between my legs. It’s then, however, that I realize I’ve been presented with perhaps the rarest of opportunities: four clear lanes of boulevard, a sympathetic police escort, and a chance to snag my number 3 spot and extend the stock car racing metaphor as much as possible.

Throwing caution, and perhaps my last ounce of reasonable doubt to the wind, I pull out of line and hammer the throttle as much as I dare, blasting past ten, then twenty, then fifty crawling Vipers at a whopping 45-mph, fingers crossed that the cops still zooming down the street in the far lane will ignore my lack of decorum until I can regain my position at the front of the pack. In my mind I can picture scowling faces in imaginary Detroit Race Control screaming into headset mics and commanding my crew chief to send me to the “tail-end of the longest line,” but fortunately for everyone my fantasies don’t ever manifest themselves that fully in the real world. It’s not until the lead car is in sight that a uniformed officer in a patrol car pulls up beside me and suggests commands me to “get back in line!”

Once I’ve obliged, the rest of the trek to the M1 grounds is pleasantly uneventful – or rather, as uneventful as a train belching over a hundred thousand horsepower through sidepipes can realistically be on public streets. Parking the car on the concourse, I look down at the fuel gauge before shutting the car off and realize that had I not made my pit stop, I definitely would still be out there on the boulevard instead of here with the Roadkill Nation, celebrating not just the Viper, but every car out there killed by bean counters, market forces outside their control, or changing tides at the company that brought them into the world. As row after row of ACR, GTS, RT/10, GTC, GT, and T/A cars pull in alongside each other, however, I realize that the Viper family isn’t just steel, glass, and big honkin’ V10s – it’s muscle, love, and heart. And none of that is going away any time soon.

  The post A Week Of Daily Driving, Pie Pickup, And A Goodbye To Conner Assembly In A 2017 Viper ACR Voodoo II appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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