I'm addicted to high performance automobiles

Hello Everyone, From the very first vehicle I could call my own, a giant 9-passenger grey and maroon van I once filled with a dozen fencers to go sledding, I've gone from one high-performance automobile to the next. Their elite capabilities didn't all come in the same area though. The van, for instance, was high-end because it could carry a lot of stuff and people. It could also play cassette tapes while everyone else was stuck listening to the radio or, heaven forbid, a CD. Somewhere, I think I still have the Neil Diamond: The Early Years tape I bought at a second hand store that provided the sound track to my adventures in the van I affectionately dubbed, Big Poppa. From there, I went in a different direction. Big Poppa wasn't a city vehicle, so I went for something more urban: the barely street-legal rally car known as the Mazda Protégé. With a ferocious 2.0 Litre engine and standard transmission, it was a corner-drifting, fog-light flashing, head-snapping accelerator. It was a real-life KITT, only silver. And not passive-aggressive. But the salt-induced rust eventually got the better of him, and I had to move on. To the Cherry Bomb! The little red unit, the Prius C, was more of a pure drag-racer than the Protégé. It was a Greyhound, all coiled muscle and lithe limbs, a sprinter who was languid and relaxed most of the time, but who came alive whenever the race was on. Specifically, the engine would shut off in stop and go traffic, because it was a hybrid, and that's what they do. But of the many things it could do, unfortunately, hauling a camper wasn't one of them. So, I got the truck. With the colour, demeanor and strength of a Belgian draft horse, my Gentle Giant was capable of hauling thousands of pounds up and down mountains, across river beds, through the desert, all without a word of complaint. When winter came, he was sure-footed and happy to pull lesser cars out of the snow. But like Big Poppa, he was ill-suited to the confined spaces of the city. He needs, deserves, to be in wide-open country, hauling weight and getting stuff done. And now, I'm back to the drag racers. My mean green machine. My Bruce Banner. My Prius C. As with all my vehicles, this one too, looks fly as hell. Aurally quiet but visually loud, it prowls the vibrant streets of the Glebe, pronouncing my sense of fashion and environmental credibility. Look alive out there. wes 

Photos 

Lookin' sharp.