[Buzz]

I recently spent more time on this site than I have in a long time - mostly in the lounge - and that's a good thing because being here has rekindled the passion and actually got me motivated to get the Cobra back on the road after a long hiatus.

I've been tied up with a restaurant project for the better part of the last 18 months during which time I also lost my Dad, and the Cobra, needing some TLC, spark plug wires, a new starter, a brake bleed and a tune-up; basically sat neglected in the garage.

Cutting to the chase, I dove into it and got everything done - finally making the last adjustments to the carb about five hours ago. There was less than a quarter tank of gas according to the gauge and I was itching for a test drive. The sad part was the sky, mostly bright blue and clear, was darkening in the east - a sure sign that rain was on the way.

One problem with the carb was an off-idle bog on acceleration that made it necessary to ease into the throttle before tromping down to avoid a nasty stumble followed by an unsettling burst of power. I played with every adjustment including the electric choke to no avail until it hit me between the eyes when I was resetting the idle mixture. I had installed a new feed line with a fuel pressure regulator and gauge when I changed the carb late last year. I'd had heat soak issues before, so I also insulated the line and added an aluminum heat shield. Turns out the heat shield was interfering with the accelerator pump arm on the bottom of the carb. Convinced that was what was causing the stumble, I used a punch and a hammer (when all else fails...) to make an indentation in the shield below the pump arm. A few crisp blips of the throttle seemed to confirm that was indeed the case.

By now the dark clouds had climbed way up and even though it was still blue and sunny overhead, showers were clearly not too far away. The fuel level was perilously low, especially given the "approximate" nature of these gauges and, dying for a test drive, I decided to make a run for the nearest gas station about 4 miles down the road.

My wife shook her head with a knowing smile and reminded me to buckle up before heading out. On the long slow idle down the driveway and then the bumpy accessway to the main road; short, modest bursts of gas showed no stumble and I couldn't wait to open her up a bit. Unfortunately, however, I ended up behind a convoy of slow traffic headed up by a huge hauler toting a crane from one of the hotel construction sites. Just as well, I thought - no sense getting over exuberant with the car on the first drive, so I settled into a comfortable cruise, all senses tuning in to the gauge readouts, sounds, smells and sensory feedback that eventually gets hard wired into the CNS of every Cobra owner. They let us know instantly if something is wrong or in this case today, very, very right. Everything looked, sounded, smelled and felt perfect - the gauges, the smell of the hot headers and pipes, the warble and rasp of the exhaust and the feedback through the wheel and the seat of my shorts - all bang on.

The procession continued all the way to the gas station and I pulled up to the pump instantly silencing the usually jovial gathering of after work beer drinkers and truck drivers standing around the ice machine. On the other side of the pumps a hotel bus filled with new arrivals tilted ever so slightly as a few people leaned over each other to get a look at the unlikely spectacle of a Cobra drawing a gathering crowd at a gas station in the Caribbean.

After gassing up, there was the obligatory show and tell with the pleasantly curious onlookers, and I was surprised by a barebacked, work toughened construction labourer who knew a bit about Cobras - "That started as an AC Ace" he pointed out for my eddification and that of his compadres. They stood back and watched, amused, as I buckled the harness. One guy said; "That's a flippin' plane or what, man! Where de parachute?" His buddies roared with laughter, but that turned again to wide eyes and mumbles when I fired the engine, waved and rumbled away from the pump.

The road was clear now, and as I turned towards the access ramp, I was literally tingling with the adrenaline fueled anticipation that I always get when I know I am about to unleash the hell hounds and put the brutal little Cobra through its paces.

Then the rain came.

I was faced with a choice: turn back and wait it out under the gas station canopy or make a break for it and head home. It was a no brainer. I pulled onto the damp road and eased into the throttle. The engine bellowed gloriously and the tires whined as they spun freely on the wet asphalt. The tail swung out gracefully and predictably and I held it there through first, accelerating at an angle as a fine mist of steam curled away in the view from the spun aluminum Raydyot mounted on the windshield pillar. An easy twist of the wheel brought it back in line when I clutched and shifted quickly into second and the Cobra picked up speed past a crowded bus shelter as the tires whirred and the tail continued to the other side in a graceful arc. Nobody likes a showoff but I must admit smiling to myself when my peripheral vision noted commotion erupting among the young guys who forgot the shelter, hooting and hollering at the incredulous sight of this awesome little car bellowing sideways up the road, topless, in a shower of rain.

As I left the busy area behind, I knew that some of the laughter was probably directed at the fool getting his a$$ soaked in the convertible; but looking at the rain pelting the windshield and the ridiculous little wipers scrambling in vain to keep up - I wondered what they would think if they knew that other than the odd droplet or two smacking me in the forehead, I was completely dry above 40 miles an hour.

Past third gear, and continuing to push it on the empty highway, things became a lot more serious and demanding of concentration as wheelspin well above 70 mph on a wet road is like dancing with the devil. I hammered it on the 3/4 mile straightaway leading to the gates of my neighborhood and the feeling was close to surreal. Scenery was a blur because of the combination of speed, heavy rain and the red mist that instinctively takes over your brain and locks all of your sensory resources on the road ahead and the critical task of managing the actions that are key to the situation at hand. Traction was on the ragged edge the whole way but the car performed flawlessly. Wild and crazy by the standards that limit any ordinary mortal ride, but within the realm of what a Cobra owner expects his lil' she demon to do when it's time to perform.

I slowed when I entered the the narrow, off camber roads of my neighborhood and more rain entered the cockpit as I was able to relax enough to glance around. I noticed the droplets hitting the passenger seat and I became conscious of water running down the back of my neck. The release of adrenaline made me laugh out loud as a tourist couple jogging in the rain dropped their jaws when I rumbled by and for a brief moment in time, politics and economics and conflict ceased to exist and all was well in the universe.

It got wetter as I navigated the bumpy access road and my lil' Cobra idled mightily in second gear up the long, steep driveway to my property - a good indicator of its current state of tune. At the top, I turned towards the garage and...
Down the lane I looked and there was Wifey - hair of gold and lips like cherries
standing there with a towel and that knowing smile. As usual, she had heard me coming home from a mile away.

It was good. It was good - to touch... the green, green grass of home.