Instead of reprinting an article from the Miata Magazine’s usual gang of contributors this one caught my interest because of the Oregon connection. From the places and roads mentioned, I am guessing this takes place around Eugene which is around 150 miles northwest of me as the crow flies. The community college mentioned is more than likely Lane CC and currently there is no one there named Ben Hill. There is a Tami Hill that teaches Social Sciences that I suppose could be some relation… I then googled Magomet Tavkazakov and found a guy who was the head of a Russian juice company that Pepsi bought in 2008, but from the TASS photos he looks a little old to have been in a community college in 1995.

Miata Post-Cold-War Diplomacy

– by Member Benjamin Hill

Teaching math in an Oregon community college, the most exciting part of my work day is generalaly the commute – a winding nine miles of pine-studded foothills in the cockpit of my ’92 Miata. But the college grew more interesting recently, with the arrival of an exchange teacher from Nalchik, Russia, one Magomet Tavkazakov.

Students and staff were charmed by Magomet’s good looks and mischievous smile. Despite his not quite perfect English, he was an engaging conversationalist, and began dropping by my office each morning, eager to chat about geometry and metaphysics, or to marvel about life in America.

When an Oregon miracle occurred (sunshine on a winter weekend), I called Magomet at his exchange host’s house. “Want to go hiking?”

“Okay.”

Magomet was surprised when I arrived in the Miata, top down and resplendent in my motoring cap. “Wow,” he exclaimed, but recovered deftly, producing in rapid succession from his knapsack a pair of dark glasses, a jacket, and a bootleg Beatles cassette. He fastened his seat belt, inserted the cassette, and we were off and running to the cries of George Harrison’s guitar.

Exiting town by back roads, we skirted Fern Ridge Reservoir, roared up Greenhill Road to a gorgeous view of the Coast Range, then headed south on old Lorane Highway, famous for its scenery and switchbacks. Alternating pastures and hills gave the drive a catchy syncopation, speed counterpoised to cornering with frequent quick gear changes. Traffic amounted to occa­sional ranch trucks, providing perfect excuses for high rpm passing.

When the Beatles tape ended, Magomet replaced it with Russian rock n’ roll. For miles he was mostly silent, but when he did speak, it was to praise American geography or Japanese engineering. He voiced his heartfelt approval of motor travel “open to the environment,” and I nodded in total agreement.

In an hour, we rolled through the town of Cottage Grove, then headed toward the Cascade Range. Pastures gave way to tree farms which in turn gave way to groves of second growth fir. The road passed through former mining outposts of Disston and Culp Creek, then narrowed to a single lane with turnouts, plunging deeper into the forest as the air grew sweet and humid. Though narrow, the road was well-engineered and dry. The Miata ate it up. We met no traffic, but the possibility made an enjoyable challenge of blind curves. I approached each 60+ mph, breaking and downshifting, then accelerating through the arc on a disciplined line while prepared to react in the face of an oncoming log truck.

Ten miles of slalom curves later, a hand-lettered sign marked the fork to Bohemia Saddle. The road crossed a rickety bridge, turned to gravel, and began to climb radically. On steep coarse gravel, the Miata was out of its element. I pressed ahead anyway, maintaining steady speed and praying not to “high-center.” As the Miata churned along, I was reminded of North Dakota duck hunting trips taken years ago in a 1970 Super Beetle. The Volkswagen was a nightmare on those rutted, muddy roads. But it redeemed itself the time I sailed through an unmarked T-intersection, making a sort of foamed runway landing in a field of plowed mud. A heavier vehicle would have foundered in that bog. But with its sealed underbelly the Bug doubled as a sled. I blocked the accelerator at half-throttle, opened the door and pushed with my left foot while working the clutch with my right, and sort of swam out of that field. Now here I was, swimming through gravel in a freshly waxed Miata. What an idiot I am! – that is what I was thinking.

But the roadster was game. In a few minutes we emerged at the top of a ridge, and were rewarded by a view of volcanic snowcaps. I pulled onto a turnout, stopped the engine, and reached behind me to unsnap the canopy boot. I enjoy raising the Miata’s top while still behind the wheel, with a single over-the-shoulder right arm maneuver both macho and yogic, albeit less gentle to vinyl and flesh than the method described in the manual.

With the car secured, Magomet and I set off along the ridge, moving through stands of tall trees, and catching stunning alpine view. Traversing a patch of snow, we passed the base of a waterfall, and paused to taste edible sorrel plants. As we continued to walk, we exchanged geometry brain teasers:
•Why does a mirror reverse left and right, but not up and down?
•Where is a lost explorer who walks one mile south, one mile east, and one mile north, returning to the point where he began?

Back at the car in a couple of hours, we snacked and drove slowly back down the loose gravel grade. “I like your car,” observed Magomet, for the fourth or fifth time. “Do you have a car back home in Russia?” I asked. “I had one, but I sold it.” “What kind?” He smiled. “You will think this is funny. It was a Ford Granada I bought in Germany.”

When it came, solid pavement was a relief. I pulled over, killed the engine, and handed Magomet the keys. “You drive.” Over his half­hearted objections, I chased him from the passenger seat and hinged back the top. “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he said, but he was already adjusting the mirrors.

Magomet drove, cautiously at first, and then with more confidence, his grin widening with every gear change. Our conversation touched on mathematics again, but this time the humble mathematics of proportion: “1597 cc displacement per 1225 kilograms.”

Later that month, American and Russian astronauts would rendezvous aboard the Russian space station Mir. But as we glided along with Magomet at the wheel, I couldn’t help feeling that by way of post cold-war adventure/diplomacy, my friend and I took a back seat to no one aboard my Japanese roadster.