Red October
For the November 2012 issue of Pirate Press, I chronicled my first experience driving a Corvette. My daughter had won a beauty pageant, and I needed a convertible for the Homecoming parade, so a family friend graciously volunteered his 1999 C5. Given my track record and lead foot, I'm not sure I would have trusted myself with a Corvette convertible, but he did, and I thankfully managed to return it in one piece.
The owner, whose age and haircut closely mimics that of a famous English band named after an insect, could have been an unacknowledged fifth member. And that got me thinking what popular Sixties musical act would I be: A Beetle, a Monkee, or a Door? I posed this purely hypothetical question to my better half, perhaps thinking she might romantically visualize me as rock-poet Jim Morrison, but instead she said I was definitely a Monkee. Nevertheless, I was flattered that she remembered it was my Chinese Zodiac Animal and I asked her if it was because of the sign's admirable qualities like Artistry, Charisma and Intelligence? No, she sweetly replied, it was the primate's propensity for flinging its own feces and masturbating in public that reminded her of me.
But I digress...
Now, nearly a decade later my daughter was chosen as a junior homecoming maid and I was loaned the same red Corvette for the 2021 parade. Upon dropping into the leather seat after a 9 year-absence, there was a sense of excitement, achievement and nervousness. Of course, the C5 is still roughly the same, minus some new tires and having racked up a few more miles. I say a "few more" because in 9 years it's only accumulated 2,000 additional miles. And that's primarily the reason for the new Michelin Pilot tires as the old Nittos had dry-rotted from the car sitting unused, sometimes for years at a time. Sadly, the owner refuses to sell it, claiming he's saving it for his granddaughter. And while this would be a dream come true for most any normal girl, her *wink-wink* "masculine manner" means she only wants a big, ugly truck and not a shiny, sports car.
So I gladly gave it some much needed exercise.
And for what it's worth, the new Michelins are by far the best of the three tires I've personally tested on a C5. From a performance standpoint, the Kuhmo Run-Flats on my 2002 model were the worst, sacrificing lateral adhesion for the ability to drive 50-miles on a deflated tire. But in a car that I only drove 1,000 miles in 12 months, it's clear that ability wasn't a priority for me. However, the original owner quite possibly bought them due to living in an area I charitably characterized as "the armpit of Louisiana" and he obviously didn't feel safe breaking down there. Conversely, the new Michelins offered enough grip that I was able to pin the accelerator to the floor from a 20 mph roll without breaking them loose. Of course, I wasn't brave enough to try that in my C5, but it sure was fun in someone else's. And with 93 octane at $4-per-gallon, I also appreciated that it was dropped off with a full tank. After all, I'd be converting that petrol into excised hydrocarbons as rapidly as possible!
Otherwise, it's exactly how I remembered it, replete with the jarring ride and squeaky chassis that's endemic to every C5 out there. As such, driving it requires the forgiveness of a Catholic priest because it's truly a love/hate affair. I detest how it crashes over even the smallest bumps, but open it up for the briefest of moments and the roar and shove of the push-rod 350 is exhilarating. That 5.7-liter V8 might be old-fashioned but it still packs a wallop—even with four-valves-per-cylinder and variable valve-timing, my newer Fusion Sport can't hope to possibly keep up with it. Turning onto the highway, the Corvette accelerated to 90 mph so quickly that I had to hit the brakes, lest a State Trooper might nab me for speeding.
Clearly, the C5 is long on good looks and raw power, but in virtually all the other areas it's not so charming. For instance, take the convertible top which absolutely refused to retract. In fact, it seemed so hopeless that I was seriously considering driving it in the parade with the top up because I was running out of time. It was only after sheer desperation (and Googling it) that I finally managed to get it folded down.
And for most of the day, the weather was similarly uncooperative with scattered showers that soaked everything. I even delayed picking up the Corvette until that afternoon as I didn't want the road spray to dirty it. But as school dismissed at 3:00, the sun came out with a fiery vengeance making it miserably hot and humid. Growing up, October used to be a cool and dry month, but those days now seem as far away as my youth.
Unlike the homemade signs we used in 2012, Amanda wanted professionally designed ones this year. She located a sign-printing place, got a price, and was ready to order them when I asked how she planned on attaching them to the car? This was a point of contention since last time we used tape and midway through the parade they began to slide off. But she proudly explained that the new signs would have magnetic backs to eliminate that issue. I admired her problem-solving skills, yet had to point out something she hadn't considered: Corvettes have plastic door panels, so trying to use a magnet on them would be like taking an air-cooled Porsche to a radiator shop. In the end, we employed some suction-cup hooks— and while having to punch a couple holes in each sign wasn't the most elegant solution— they certainly held on well. In fact, they were so sturdy that I actually had trouble prying them off afterwards.
Unfortunately, the Corvette's seats were hard and flat, and I discovered just how difficult the low-slung position made for tossing parade paraphernalia— I felt as incapable as Conor McGregor at Wrigley Field! The previous weekend we blew two Benjamins on over 1,000 party favors including 440 Taffy Fruit Chews (affectionately referred to as "Teeth Pullers" by a co-worker), 288 plastic footballs and 192 Moon Pies. Worse yet, there was so little room in the C5 that we had to invent creative ways to stash all the goodies, such as hanging beads from the sun visors, on the back of the headrests, and even stacking tiny frisbees over the gear shifter. The slippery convertible top didn't help either, as the items kept falling between the seats and I was tasked between driving and digging them out. Don't tell anyone, but I bet they're still a few melted Tootsie Rolls under there.
As mentioned earlier, it was unseasonably hot for Autumn so Amanda suggested I turn on the air-conditioner as we trudged along in the 5-mph procession. I did and we promptly got a face full of hot air and dead leaves as it appeared the air-conditioner probably was last used when Obama was still in office. Seeing that it was doing the exact opposite of cooling us down, I simply shut it off and went back to monitoring the water temp which was flirting with the gauge's red line. It never quite made it there, but it certainly threatened to a couple of times. Aside from that, the other constant warning was an alert about checking the tire monitoring system. Apparently, the right rear TMPS wasn't sending any info about the tire's air pressure, so the system was throwing a hissy fit. I could reset it, but every time I restarted the car, the message returned as faithfully as a bounced check.
And rather than making a sensible decision like getting to travel with the other Corvettes, the Homecoming Committee placed us behind the enormously unsafe Sophomore float, which contained 25 rowdy, over-caffeinated students. The theme was "Candy Land" and it was engineered with all the security and structural knowledge of, well, teenagers so it predictably began shedding large chunks of decoration almost as soon as we'd pulled out of the High School parking lot.
So seeing as how 22 year-old Corvette parts are both terribly expensive to repair and replace, I had to remain hyper-vigilant to avoid the stray pieces that were dangerously blowing off. At one point I quickly swerved to miss a six-foot Gingerbread man that detached itself and threatened to crush us. Never one to miss an opportunity, Amanda quoted a hilarious reference to Shrek and excitedly exclaimed, "Not the gumdrop buttons!"
But that wasn't the only hazard I was on guard against. Nope, my biggest concern was the complete lack of safety along the entire three-mile parade route. There were no physical barricades or impediments to prevent tiny kids from randomly darting out to retrieve a candy bar or necklace. This uncertain activity meant at any given moment I might have to suddenly dodge or brake for a child who foolishly believed a cheap plastic football was worth risking their life for.
Back on the Sophomore float, which was now recklessly teetering like the Titanic, Victoria's friend Sarah had migrated to the back and they were playing a game whereby they were trying to throw each other pieces of candy between the moving vehicles. Still too far away, her friend kept motioning for us to come closer. Like a hijacking scene from The Fast & The Furious, I pulled the Corvette's fiberglass nose to within a few inches of the trailer's rear bumper so Victoria could get a perfect candy trajectory into the float. However, her friend misjudged and the Jolly Rancher hit our windshield like a runaway rock, causing me to nearly soil my pantaloons. Thankfully, it didn't crack it but it was certainly a pucker moment. I could only imagine the difficult conversation I'd have with the owner over how it happened.
Mercifully, we made it back before the float completely fell apart, the Corvette overheated, we hit a child, or any myriad number of other tragic things at the intersection of possibility and bad luck.
Suffice it to say, we were all exhausted. I definitely think it's a lot better being on the receiving end of a parade versus the fatigue and outrageous cost of participating in it, but Victoria obviously believes otherwise.
So when we left, I let Victoria hop in the driver's seat and take us home. She may only have her Learner's Permit, but I still felt it was way less dangerous than turning her loose in a 900hp Hellcat like I did last year in Texas. That is, except for the fact that she was driving in three-inch heels which probably weren't the safest option when you have 350 hp under your right foot.
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