This is a bit of fiction from the Spring 1996 Miata Club of America Magazine and is technically copyrighted, which I always ignore (its not like I’m making any money here.) But I at least try to credit the author. I can’t do that this time because for some reason there isn’t an author listed for this story. Remind me later to write about what happened when I went searching for the author of Winter ’95 article

The Meter Man

I’m the meter man.

New York City. Lexington from 86th to 89th. Seventy-two spaces. Sixty-eight meters. Four loading zones. Daylight hours I walk the beat. Keep ’em moving. Keep this big city on its toes on my three blocks. I’m the meter man.

Mostly it’s imports. A few old domestics. Used to be only 52 spaces, then the cars got smaller. City came in and restriped my blocks. More cars, more meters. More infractions. More tickets to write. That’s good for me. I’m the meter man.

Some folks abuse the system. The system never likes to be abused. I’ll give you one renewal. Maybe two. Try to take up a spot all morning and I’ll zero your meter the minute you walk off. Citation goes under the wiper. Always the passenger side. Face down. Per the code. Meter man code. Gotta keep things moving.

I get some arguments. Some threats. I just boot ’em if they get noisy. Big nasty orange boot I keep in the Cushman. Locks the tire down so nobody goes nowhere unless I say so. I love putting that boot on and walking away, a Joe or Jane screaming at the top of their lungs. Where they gonna go? I booted ’em. I’m the meter man.

I make my morning rounds by eight, chalking tires and resetting empties. Not that slots stay empty on my blocks. A regular stretch of commerce I got here. A big bank. A yuppie coffee shop. A few grocery stores. A subway station at 86th. Not my jurisdiction. I’m strictly top ground.

My home base sits opposite the bank. It’s a booth in the Gold Arm Restaurant. Good java. Black and hot. Don’t know what country the beans come from. Don’t care. Just make it bottomless and hot. Two cups per hour – that’s my limit. Can’t get jittery, start given tickets at whim. You’ll loose the respect of your constituency. When that happens, the system crashes.

They know me. I know them. The same people come here each day. Usually go for the same spots. Sort of like they all agreed to come at the same time and take the same spots each day. I went to the ballet once. My blocks are kinda like that somedays. Everything fits. The system works.

‘Bout a year ago something new came up. A white import job, one of those Miatas came on the block. Started hanging around. Would move from spot to spot, stay around all morning and then leave. Strange thing was, the meters were paid, but the Jane sometimes wouldn’t leave the car. Just sat watching the meter go down. After a few hours, she would leave. Always paid in time, always parked straight. Fit right into the system, sort of.

I like those Miatas. Me and the wife would love to get one. It’d take a lot of nickels to get close. This one was nice. A ’95 white on tan leather. CD player. Stock wheels. Factory Dunlops (you get to notice treads in my line of work). Maybe when I retire they’ll give me one of those. Right, ha, and the Mayor will come for dinner. Ha! That’s a good one! Gotta tell Betty that one. Ha!

This Miata keeps on showing up. Takes slots near the bank. Jane goes in, stays, then comes out. This goes on for two weeks. I’m getting to get suspicious. I think this Jane is trying to get some free time. I notice that each time the meter goes down, she don’t come out right on time. She’s getting sloppy, taking longer to renew. I’m giving her the three times up, but she’s abusing the grace period.

The grace period is my contribution to the system. I’ll give you four minutes to renew after the meter goes down. I’m not a mean guy, I know people are busy. Four minutes for free. That’s my oil in the system, keeps the street running, the regulars happy. But Jane with the Miata is scarfing a buffer she ain’t earned. Four minutes she asked for right away. Then it was five. I don’t know what she’s doing in that bank, but she stays for three cycles every morning. Each cycle she takes the five minute buffer. She’s stealing time on my beat.

One day a plan comes to me. I’m sitting in the Gold Arm having my second cup o’joe and it appears clear as day. I can take that Miata away from her. I can boot it and get it impounded for twenty-four hours. That’ll show ’em all. A pure white sacrifice to the system. I begin to lay my plan for that Miata.

I get my boot device out of the Cushman and start carrying it around with me. I’m going to surprise little miss Miata with a ticket today. Gonna hit her on the first cycle. If she abuses my slot again, I’ll boot ‘er fast as daylight.

It comes up like clockwork. She takes a slot right in front of the bank. Goes in. Cycle passes, she comes out five minutes late for renewal. I’ve already ticketed her. She sees the ticket and renews her meter. Doesn’t even look at the ticket. That’s some kinda moxy. Alright little lady, if it’s attitude you want, it’s attitude you’ll get.

I ticket her again during her second cycle. Gotta have two separate ticketing events before the boot comes out. That’s code. Gotta go by the book if we want the impound. Others will be involved if the car leaves my street, gotta have an iron clad case on this one.

Third cycle, she exits the bank before the meter’s flag drops. She’s gone. Missed her today, but got my two tickets down. Now I can boot ‘er. I got my NYC Official Paper Trail. She’s all mine. Nobody beats the system on my block.

Next day, she shows up per usual. Circles the grid a few times looking for a bank-up spot. They’re tough to get. Fifth time around she sees an opening coming out. Double parks, flashers on, waiting for the owner to pull out. I pace across the street. I stop and stare at her double parked there. She looks over. I duck behind a tree. Don’t want to tip her off that she’s being watched. Not today. She hustles into her spot. You’re mine today, little girl…

She goes in the bank after filling her meter. I go to my booth and order a jolt. Forty-five minutes from now. Forty-five minutes to showdown time. I got my orange boot in the Cushman right outside. The system is going to win today.

Forty-four minutes and she’s still inside. I’ve broken my rule and I’m on my seventh cup of joe. My hand shakes as I pour in the sugar. The spoon against the cup sounds like a bell. “For whom the bell tolls,” I say to myself. I let go a laugh. A nervous caffeine jacked-up laugh. Gotta get serious. Almost show time.

Forty-five minutes. Done. Now the grace clock starts. Four minutes to go. No fiver today, pretty miss. The system is hungry today. Countdown to boot-time.

Two minutes into grace. The waitress brings me cup number nine. I submarine it. Never take my eyes of the white Miata. Time to go. I drop a ten spot on the table. Lucky waitress. Maybe lucky me. Not so lucky for Jane today.

I walk out to the Cushman. The orange boot is kept in a special holder in the back. I grab it out and hold it in my right had Check my watch on my left wrist. I rolled up my sleeve so I can see it clearly. Three minutes, thirty seconds. I begin strolling across the street. Traffic stops for me. The system is gathering a head of steam. I’m the coal tender.

I reach the Miata. Check the watch. Four. Three. Two. One. I look up to the flag on the meter. It reads “VIOLATION”. Man, I love the system.

I kneel down and boot the driver’s side front wheel. My hands fumble, numb from the caffeine. My breathing is shallow. My heart is racing. The cars passing in the street roar against my ears.

I get the lock set. I stand up and kick the boot hard with my left foot. It stays. It’s on. I cross back over to my unit. Glancing back, I see the orange boot like some bear trap on the Miata. Mine, all mine. I radio from my unit to HQ. Call in a pickup for 37th. Flatbed unit – can’t damage such a car.

I go back to my booth and order two cups of java. New pot. Slice of pie a la mode. Today I am king. I wait for the tow team.

I watch the bank’s front door for a sign of Jane. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees it. A head on collision with the system. Me at the wheel.

Ten minutes later she comes out. Something’s strange. She’s running. Jane’s wearing sunglasses and a hat. Some guy is with her. They are both running. Jane circles around the car. She’s carrying a large duffle bag in one hand, it swings wide as she comes around the rear bumper. Must be full of something. Instinctively, I stand up and go out to the curb. I hear a bell ringing loudly.

The guy with Jane has already gotten in the car. Jane is opening up the driver’s door and sees it. From across the street I can see the blood drain from her face. She yells something. Two uniforms come charging out of the bank. Guns drawn overhead. Lots of screaming. Jane and friend run from the Miata in my direction. Uniforms yell to me to stop them.

Not my jurisdiction. I don’t carry a gun. I’m the meter man Different system.

Jane and friend run past. My uniform is invisible to them. I take my chalking stick and trip Jane. Guy gets away. Uniforms cross over and cuff Jane. Duffle bag is full of dough. A precinct unit arrives. Takes her away. The block settles down. I go back to my booth. Big headache.

I glance across the street and see it. The Miata is still there. Key in the ignition. Boot on the wheel. A bigger plan emerges. A much bigger plan.

The flatbed arrives and I unboot the Miata for loading. Anthony is the driver. His father is a friend. I tell him which impound lot to take it to on the south side. Covered lot. Safe lot. Hidden lot. We call it the Queens triangle. Cars seem to get lost in there. Often.

Sixty days later I call for the auction date on case #95QB376-GB. It is the 5th of June. Today is the 4th. I make another call.

It’s midnight at the precinct on the 4th. The chief comes out with the paperwork for the auction. It is normally scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on the sale date. Legally, it can be rescheduled to fit the chief’s workload. The chief is not busy at one minute after midnight on the 5th. We schedule the auction for then. Chiefs a friend of mine. And of the system.

“Pertaining to case #95QB376-GB for the City of New York,” the chief says loudly to all in the waiting room where I am seated. Me and two drunks look up. “Said case has fines held against it totaling $125 for parking violations and $85 for towing.” I pull out a roll of bills from my left pocket. Pulled it out of my pension account that morning. “I now open the bidding at $210,” the chief starts. “Do I hear $210”.

I stand, hands shaking. “$250,” I call out. The system likes a fair player. “Sold,” the chief says. Betty will be so proud.

————-

We pull into Niagara Falls on a beautiful day. Betty looks great. My arms are sunburnt. The top is down. We drove all day to get here. Took back roads. Nice car.

I park along a red curb. We get out to go to the falls. I pull a blank parking ticket from my breast pocket. I fold it in half. Put it under my driver’s side wiper. Betty smiles. Professional Courtesy will keep our Miata safe. One of the advantages to being me. I’m the meter man.

If you have read my story of buying my first Miata, Brian Buys A Miata, (and if you haven’t, go read it now, I’ll wait) in the second paragraph in it I mention 3 cars that I was considering buying before discovering the Miata. Now, pay attention when you get to the paragraph in here where the author says “flying solo into the then-empty affordable sports car market” because 3 of the 4 cars he mentions were the ones I also considered back in 1989.

Good Bones

By Norman Garrett III
Founder Miata Club of America
Concept Engineer Miata Project

I have a glass vial on my desk that contains a small, round clump of some brown substance. It never ceases to be a conversation starter when anyone visits my office. No, it is not the pathology lab’s yield from some recent operation. It is a clump of modeling clay used on the final Miata clay styling model. I keep it as a reminder how fluid the Miata’s shape was for three years, and how difficult it is to know when a car is “right.”

I used to love to hang out with the modelers and designers. As an engineer, they tolerated my presence because I would pour their coffee. Watching the clay take shape into a car was fascinat­ing. What looked like a perfectly good fender to me would be labeled “defec­tive” and “obnoxious” by the committee of designers. I observed closely as the slightest radius or intersection would be worried over for days until it was right.

How the light played and reflected on the surface, how it moved from door to fender to hood, all of this was critical to the designer’s goal. Did the fender look too muscular? Did the hood distract or add to the view from the driver’s seat? Did the trunk lid surface transition well into the rear quarter panels? All of these details were sweated and fretted as the designers critically looked on. I stood there like a color-blind man staring at a traffic light. I couldn’t see a tenth of what they were so worried about.

This type of surface development takes two main ingredients: Talent (which Mazda had wisely hired) and Time (some of it on the clock, most of it off). In the quiet of a one car studio at the Mazda skunk works, the Miata slowly, painfully took shape with great expenditures of both of these elements.

We would always start a clay model with an armature – a basic steel ladder frame with hubs and wheels hung off the corners at the approximate correct wheelbase and track width. From there we would bolt down plywood, and then adhere blocks of rigid foam. The last three inches or more would be applied in warm clay. The musty smell of modeling clay is earthy and romantic, full of possibilities. The entire corporate office had clay tracks leading out of the studio, it would never leave the bottom of your shoes.

Once the clay was applied, the modelers began their sculpting, directed by the designers careful eye. Usually a full size side view rendering was posted on a wall and the basic shape began from there. Translating a two dimensional airbrush drawing into a viable three dimensional object requires more than artistic skills, it requires vision.

My job came in as I digitized the surface, taking a “snapshot” of the styled surfaces. I would make body contour drawings of the model and lay it against the known “hard points.” Hard points those pesky little things that got in the designers’ way, such as the engine, the steering wheel, the rear suspension. If there was a conflict, it was negotiation time as we sorted out how much it would cost to change the hardware so the car could be that much prettier. Thanks to the packaging skills of the engineers in Japan, most of what the designers wanted was accom­plished. They were relatively free to design a short wheelbase sports car as they saw fit.

As I’ve said before, the Miata (or P729, as it was called then) had the advantage of flying solo into the then-empty affordable sports car market. The only players at that time were the origi­nal Toyota MR2 (a.k.a. “Gobot”), the Alfa Spider (long in tooth even then), the Pontiac Fiero (not bad toward the end), and if you stretched, the Honda CRX. A clean sheet of paper was avail­able for the Miata to appear upon, but that is not always a good thing.

Blazing new trails in the automotive marketplace is a risky proposition at best. Look at the Pacer, the GM APV van, the del Sol. Since we were recreating the affordable sports car, some cues were available from the history of that market. No specific styling feature was “lifted” from the museum of great sports cars, but a trend could be seen if you mixed them all together.

The balanced proportions of an MGB, the sexiness of a Jag E-type, the lightness of a Lotus Elan (styled by an engineer, I might add), all gave some guiding lights to follow. We had the common goal of making the Miata “classic” in its styling, to produce a car that might look two years old when it was first introduced, but would still look current five years later.

This all came back to me as I study the new sports cars just now coming out on the market. The new MGF is more of a second generation MR2 or del Sol sort of car, the Fiat Barchetta looks like an Italian Miata (not a bad thing), and the BMW Z3 looks like a nice little sports car made out of sedan components, chunky and funky. Seeing these cars made me appreciate how well the Miata turned out – it still looks fresh and balanced in comparison to the new offerings. Even now, after six years on the road, the Miata stands as a “finished” design to me. Modern yet classic, tight and controlled where it needs to be, fluid where it looks best.

Standing in the studio twelve years ago, I wondered why the designers kept moving a tenth of a millimeter of clay around all day. I used to pass it off to their artistic temperaments. Now, over a decade later, I see the strength in their ground work.

They gave our little car good bones, and the beauty still shines through.

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.

A Visit From The Pope

The first day of spring this year was the earliest it has been in centuries, March 19th. That was 5 days ago and if you plopped down in Klamath Falls today there would be no way to convince you that it was in fact spring. It snowed, including freezing snow or possible hail, off and on all day. Fortunately because it had been reasonably seasonal for the last week or so, there is nearly zero accumulation.

Ships in the Night

“Good night, dear” Steve said as he pulled the comforter over his shoulders and gave his wife a kiss.

“Good night…” Sandra wife responded sleepily.

This was one of Steve’s favorite times of the day. Work was five hours behind him and nine hours ahead of him. He had taken care of the kids after dinner, helped put them to bed, caught up on a bit of house work, and made a few calls after checking his voice mail. Lying in bed, waiting for sleep to come was a good time for him, alone. The turmoil of the day a distant hum, he can mull over the finer points of the day as he drifted off to dreamland. Not too much time for himself these days – work, wife, and kids kept him on his toes. These twelve or so minutes were his sole indulgence….

“You need a hobby,” Kevin said in a gruff tone. “I’ve got me one – trains. I built me up a set in the basement.”

Steve did not respond, he had heard this lecture before from his cohort. It was morning again, and the office was particularly intrusive today.

The last thing Steve wanted was advice.

“At night, after the house is asleep,” Kevin continued, undaunted “I go down to the basement and play with my trains. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes until breakfast. That’s my release…”

“When do you sleep?” Steve responded, not really wanting to encourage this line of conversation.

“That’s just the beauty of it,” Kevin piped back. “It’s so relaxing, that I don’t need those full eight hours. I can get away with as little as three, never need more than five.”

“You’re kidding,” Steve said incredulously, looking up.

“How long have you known me.”

“Six years now,” Steve shot back.

“Ever see me droopy-eyed? Slugging around after lunch? When you are fighting to keep your eyes open during the two o’clock hour, what am I doing?”

“You do your financials…” Steve said.

“Exactly. Sharp as a tack all day long, sleep like a baby at night,” Kevin said proudly. “But not until after I’ve had some me-time at the controls of Number 99.”

“A hobby…” Steve thought to himself.

On the train home that evening, Steve racked his brain. It had been years since he thought about a hobby. Golf? No time. Fishing? Too much equipment, kids still too young. Model building? “I’m a klutz with plastic cement,” Steve said to himself. What did he used to do as a kid? Not much. No sports, no musical instruments, nothing much except his sports cars. That old Triumph took all his time between fixing it and driving it.

Driving it. That was the thrill. “Boy,” Steve said to himself, “If I could just have that escape once a day, I’d sleep like a log.” He put the thought out of his mind. They could afford it, but when would he have time to drive a sports car? He’d never drive into the city for work. And he’d never leave a sports car parked at the depot all day while he was in the city. He needed that darned four door for his carpool. He was stuck. Two seaters and his current lifestyle would never mesh.

The train pulled to a stop at Arlington Station to let passengers off. Steve stared out the window blankly, counting cars stopped at the crossing. The second car back caught his eye – a yellow Mazda Miata. “Man,” Steve whispered. “That’s the ticket.” The train lurched and began to pull away. Steve’s eyes were locked on the Miata, tracking it solidly as the train accelerated down the track. Steve broke gaze with the little sports car and looked up the aisle at the hatted heads bobbing with his, nodding off, worn out from the grind. “I’ve gotta get a plan…” Steve muttered under his breath.

“Steve, it’s beautiful!” Sandra giggled. “It’ll be a great weekend car.” She was looking at the “new” used red Miata in their driveway.

“You can still drive a stick, can’t you?” Steve asked, reassuringly.

“Sure!” Sandra was excited for Steve. She knew he had been sacrificing so much over the past few years. Work was asking so much from him, he had little time for the family, much less time for a toy car. She was happy for him, even if just the idea of having a sports car brought him pleasure. She doubted if he would ever find time to drive it. Both of their schedules were jam-packed from seven in the morning until late at night. The thought of the Miata in the garage brightened her spirits, though. It was sort of like an optimistic promise of good times to come for both of them.

“Good night, dear” Steve said as he pulled the comforter over his shoulders and gave his wife a kiss.

“Good night…” Sandra wife responded sleepily. Steve stroked her hair for a while, thinking out his plan. When her breathing became deep and regular, he knew she was asleep. Her job and the kids wore her to a frazzle as well. This was just a time in their lives. Neither of them had a minute to themselves all day. Maybe she should get a hobby, Steve thought. Maybe he can get that promotion so she won’t have to teach.

He lifted her head off of his chest and laid it gently onto her pillow. He slipped out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and headed down the upstairs hallway, being careful not to disturb any of the sleeping children. Down the stairs, through the kitchen, toward the garage. The family dog raised its head quizzically, wondering what was the reason for a break in the routine.

“Get used to it, old girl” Steve said. “I’ve got a hobby,now.” Steve opened the garage door and grabbed the new keys from the key bowl. He ran his hand over the hood of the Miata, admiring its lines in the dim light of the overhead light.

He started the engine and let it idle for a few minutes. He had only driven it home from the dealer – all in bad traffic. Now it was his turn. He backed the sports car out of the driveway, straightened out onto the road, and headed off into the night…

Up through the gears, chasing his high beams out of town, Steve was free. He made no plan or destination, just let the sweet sound of that engine whine as he traveled from hill to valley, the town lights now a distant glow over the trees. Turning left, turning right, it all came back to him. All of those years with his Triumph came rushing in like an old family album. He bonded that night, bonded with something deep inside him from his youth. Before the degrees, before the mortgage, before the diapers, he did have a hobby. Now he had it again. The smile never left his face that night.

His first excursion out he was only gone thirty minutes. As he slipped back under the covers, he snuggled his wife and was asleep in seconds. “This is going to work out fantastically…” was his last thought of the night.

The next morning he awoke refreshed, ready to go. Six hours of sleep used to cripple him, make him terminally irritable. But not today. “Let’s not make a judgment just yet,” Steve thought to himself. “It’ll take a week to see if I can keep this up.”

Steve kept up his nightly therapy for twenty days straight, weekends included. Each night went a little further out. He was amazed at the fun of it. No traffic. No cops. No deadline. He could drive anywhere he wanted, exploring the countryside like a kid. It became the one release of the day that kept him going. As long as he got back before Sandra woke up, it was his secret time for himself.

He had not started out with the intent to keep this from his wife. But after the third trip out, he decided that letting her know would spoil it somehow. In some small way it would imply the need for her consent. He knew she wouldn’t mind, but he liked it being his decision alone to go out.

The country roads surrounding their suburb were splendid at night. During the spring and summer months, the smells were fantastic. Even the autumn brought its own special feel, especially when the moon was full. All of the world was asleep, but Steve and his Miata were out having fun. It is amazing, Steve thought, how nice it is to wander around without anyone watching.

As the year began to close out, Steve was getting bolder in his travels. He found he could get deep into Virginia in ninety minutes and still make it back by three a.m. That had become his only new restriction to himself – that he would be in bed by three. Otherwise, he would become a zombie, hooked on his nighttime fixes. Virginia had some of the best two lanes in the country, and he explored every one he could find, one strip at a time. It was addictive and intoxicating. And he never felt healthier in his life.

“You’re looking pretty chipper,” Kevin noted one day at the office. “You got a new girlfriend?” he said, winking.

“Better yet,” Steve countered. “I’ve got me a hobby…”

Kevin smiled a knowing smile.

The little Miata performed beautifully, never missed a lick. Steve was averaging around one hundred miles a night, but he never kept track of the odometer. Some nights he began working on the car instead of driving it; changing the oil, giving her a wax job. It only took one night a month or so, and Steve found it to be just as therapeutic.

He and Sandra would take the car out on date nights now and then, when the babysitter was available. He would let Sandra drive. She was quite proficient with a stick shift, even showing off a heel-and-toe maneuver now and then. Steve was amazed how comfortable Sandra felt with the car, even with the few times she got to drive it. “This is some car,” Steve said out loud.

“Sure is,” Sandra replied with a gleam in her eye.

It wasn’t until one night, after Steve had made his rounds and gotten back into bed, that the whole picture came into view. One of the kids had a nightmare. Steve woke up and asked Sandra who was upset. He got no response from Sandra -the light was on in their bathroom and the door was closed. He decided to go check on the crying himself. He walked down the hall quietly, listening at every door until he found the upset child. It was simply a bad dream, and it only took a minute to get his three year old back to sleep. It was close to five a.m.. Steve debated if two more hours of sleep would do him any good, or if he should just go ahead and get up. He had only taken a short hop in the Miata that night, had gotten to bed by midnight. Sandra was still sacking out by ten each evening, exhausted.

Steve went down to the kitchen and made himself some coffee. While it was brewing, he stepped out the front door to get the paper, which should be on the curb by now. Stooping down to get the morning news, his ears caught a familiar sound. It was a sports car being wound out, each gear screaming full throttle. It made him smile. “Maybe someone else’s got a hobby,” he said chuckling.

He heard the sports car being worked, and then it grew quiet. He looked up and down the street and saw no one. “Must be on a side street,” he thought to himself as he turned back up his sidewalk. As he approached the front step a noise startled him. It was the sound of his garage door beginning to open. It was an eerie sight, seeing it open by itself like that. He stood open mouthed for a moment, then stepped down off of the stoop and slowly headed over toward the opening door.

Before he got five steps he was startled again – this time by the sound of a car coming down his street and turning into his driveway. To his amazement, it was a little red Miata just like his own, and it was headed into his garage. He reached out his hand and began to scream a warning – he was sure that the car was going to ram his Miata in the garage if it did not stop. His yell was halted by the sight of Sandra wheeling the sports car into the empty garage, smile on her face, family dog in the passenger seat with a similar grin.

He followed the car into the garage and stood behind the rear bumper. Sandra stepped out and gave him a peck on the check. He could smell her damp skin and the scent of pine in her hair. He looked into her eyes.

“You’re not the only one who needs a hobby, you know,” Sandra said. “And by the way, you need to keep up with the tire wear, you’re using more than your fair share.”

She turned on her heels and went in the house, leaving Steve and his hobby in the garage, his mouth as wide open as the garage door, leading out into the night…

Because I was a fairly early adopter of the Miata and joined the now long defunct Miata Club of America in the fall of 1989, I had a complete collection of the official Club publication, Miata Magazine. I used to take an article out of the magazine and reformat it for the Masters Miata Club website as each issue became twenty-five years old. I said “had” earlier because once I’d republished an article I dispose of that issue. The Master’s Club site still exists, but content has mostly stopped now because they moved to a FaceBook Group after I moved to Oregon. I thought maybe I might continue the tradition here, after all, I still have over 8 years worth of glossy Miata history sitting here gathering dust.

Leaning Against the Wall

By Norman Garrett III
Founder Miata Club of America
Concept Engineer Miata Project

There is a wall against which each car leans when it takes a corner, no matter what the speed. That is the wall of tire adhesion. I lean against that wall as often as I can, something inside of me likes the feel of it.

Mountain roads offer the most practice – narrow walls with tilting floors. Lean to the left, lean to the right, always the tension. I am never quite comfortable traveling down straightaways in the mountains, I like something to brace myself against. Sometimes it’s a perfect sweeper to the right, sometimes a tight hairpin to the left. Either way, I like the security of the seat bolsters pressing against my ribs. It lets me know that I’m driving a sports car. In a straight line most any car feels the same. Lean against the wall and the pedigree is clear.

We tested a lot of sports cars while developing the Miata. Some had very predictable “walls” during hard cornering. You could press right up against the chassis and tire limit and stay there all day. Other cars, cars that should have known better, could scare the sushi out of you.

The Porsche 911 has long had a reputation as a wily car at the limit. We had a black Cabriolet version in Hiroshima for a convertible top study (Nice top, takes 14 hours to build, five minutes to put up. Mazda found a better way on both ends). Taking the car out on the proving grounds was always a treat, if you knew the ropes. We called the 911 the “spider” because it knew when to bite.

Come into a corner hot, brake hard in a straight line, turn in gently for a late apex, slowly lift the throttle, clip the apex and accelerate out. This routine worked great on most any rear drive car. Try it on a 911 and you’ll be clipping roadside vegetation with your rear bumper. The rear end swings wide and then around in a public display of expensive over-steer.

The problem comes from the 911’s rear suspension – it likes to have power put to it. That takes foreknowledge and guts. I tried it according to Stuttgart and found that it works, and works well. Come into the corner hot, brake in a straight line, turn in for a late apex, squeeze the throttle open long before the apex, have it fully floored at the apex and hold on. They told me to try for 10% more throttle than I thought I could handle. The car loved it, I was forced up against the door panel by the g-force. Once I teased the spider by lifting the throttle at the apex. Pulled back a bloody stub of an ego, redecorating the Miyoshi test track with spirographic black lines.

We wanted to know these sorts of things so the Miata would have performance, but not quirks. Most car manufacturers dial in a fair amount of under-steer (the front wheels turn, but the car follows lazily behind) for safety reasons. Almost anyone can deal with a car that wants to go wide in a turn. Few drivers can react quick enough to a car that dives to the inside of a turn, rear wheels skidding. Somewhere in between is a safe but fun sports car setting that excites the owners, but not the lawyers. For the Miata, we wanted to keep the “edge” but without the cliff.

We tested Lotus’, MG’s, Alfa’s, Porsche’s, Corvettes, etc. to find how others had done it. Some were great at the limit. Many were disappointing, a few were scary. Some well-respected cars lulled you into a sense of complacency that was false, and therefore dangerous.

The Porsche 944 was one of these, an interesting contrast to its older brother. Hailed as “the best handling car” at the time by Car and Driver magazine, the 944 was a popular car in its day. It was much easier to set up in a turn than the 911 and yielded great fun for the average driver. Owners lauded its “predictable and stable” handling. Problem was, its “wall” had a trap door.

One test trip had taken us to our favorite loop up in the high desert of Southern California. There is a fifteen mile public road course near Pearblossom we would test cars and tires on and against. On one trip we had one of many test drivers from Mazda japan who fell in love with the 944 in our test fleet. Lap after lap he circled the course, driving diligently but hard, looking for any holes in the “wall”. Each time he would stop, he said he was feeling something on the sweeping ninety-degree turn at the back of the course, but he had not found it yet. We sent him out again and again, like some Costeau ship sending divers down for treasure. At the end of the day, we sent him out for one last lap as the light was beginning to fade. Off he sped in search of some chink in the Porsche armor. We knew he had found it when he came back thirty minutes later – on foot.

It turns out that if you push a 944 to its limit, it can bite. Mazda rolled two more 944’s into balls during the later development of the RX-7. It appears that the trap door moves around on the 944.

Testing continued on all sorts of cars. Surprisingly, one of the best cars came from in-house: the second generation RX-7 Turbo. With stiffer bushings and shock absorbers, the RX-7T’s balance was very nice, the wall was broad and strong. You could lean right up against it any time, it was an easy wall to find and a hard one to upset. To accomplish this, Mazda had created over 120 patentable ideas to stabilize the rear suspension. Don Runkle of Chevrolet called it “complicated”. Buyers called it wonderful.

When it came time for the Miata, classical choices were the order of the day. By using a double wishbone suspension at all four corners and carefully balancing the weight distribution front to rear (and side to side), the Miata needed zero patents to achieve the same goal.

Particularly with a good set of tires, the Miata’s “wall” is broad and tall, and always where you expect it to be. Lift off of the throttle in the middle of a hard corner? No problem, the Miata will take up just a bit of slack in your radius. Punch the throttle any time you like, the chassis will take heed and move along nicely, even if you’ve hot-rodded your engine.

The Miata combines two of the most difficult traits in a sports car, tossability and predictability. That makes for the essence of spirited driving for us enthusiasts and trophy material for hundreds of dominating showroom stock racers. Pretty good for an affordable sports car, eh?

So next time you’re on a curvy road or cloverleaf, remember this discussion. Gently play around, lean up against the wall a bit. Years of development and a few sacrificial Porsches have paved the way for you to have fun, safely.

Vroom with A View

By Barbara Feinman

BANGOR, MAINE – There aren’t a lot of people in Maine, and there are even fewer Miatas. In fact, there isn’t a surplus of much up here, except lovely views, black flies, cheap lobsters, and good roads to explore.

For as long as I can remember I’ve had this romantic notion of living in New England, driving along winding coastal roads, a perfect blend of nature and technology. So when the executive editor of The Bangor Daily News asked me to come be the newspaper’s summer writing coach, I accepted immediately, visions of lighthouses and Longfellow preoccupying my thoughts.

When it was time to leave Maryland I stuffed clothes, books, etc. into every square inch of my Miata, setting out on the longest trip I’d ever driven solo–more than 700 miles. Because I have a highly developed aptitude for losing my way I make a point of bringing along a navigator on excursions farther than the video store. But there wasn’t room for a passenger and I knew, once and for all, it was time to confront my cartophobia.

“It’s easy,” my sister said, “You don’t even need a map. Just go north. If you hit Canada you’ll know you went too far.”

Thanks for the advice, sis.

A few days later I arrived in Bangor–a sprawling metropolis famous for Paul Bunyon, home of horror writer Stephen King, and also the final stop on Greyhound’s bus line.

My boss had invited me to stay at his home until I found a place to live. Before I began my apartment search I needed a day of acclimation–get my bearings, as my father would say. Come to think of it, I’ve yet to see my father lose his bearings. He’s the kind of guy who drives with one of those dashboard compasses; not because he needs it, but just in case.

When I turned the key to get in the trunk the latch failed to release. My boss gave it a try. Still no action. There’s nothing like not being able to get at your toothbrush after spending two days on the interstate.

“I read about this in a Miata newsletter,” I told my boss, jiggling the key compulsively. “Defective trunk locks are not unheard of.” It was Saturday. Forty-eight hours till I could seek professional help. And of course, I noted to myself wearily, my warranty had run out. This was not boding well, karma-wise, in terms of my summer.

Monday morning first thing I drove over to the Bangor Mazda dealership. I went into my routine about how the trunk lock must have been defective, that it shouldn’t matter that the warranty had run out… The mechanic was silent as I went on and on. Finally he said, “Yup, I’ll have a look at it.”

About two minutes later he came and found me in the waiting room. “You want to see what was wrong with your trunk?”

I jumped up and followed him.

He stuck the key in the lock, smirked, and then the trunk popped open. Goose feathers flew everywhere.

“Err, I guess I packed it a little too tight,” I said, removing the culprit.

“I guess so,” he agreed, blowing a feather away from his face. “It jammed the lock.”

“Yeah,” I said, flushed. “So how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Welcome to Maine.”

As I drove off, pillow now safely stashed in the front seat, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw he was watching me drive away, laughing and shaking his head.

“Welcome to Maine,” I mumbled, remembering the state slogan while plucking a goose feather out of my hair, “The way life should be.”

After I got the trunk situation resolved it was time to find a home. I circled an ad in the classifieds: “Reliable, responsible roommate needed. Room available in horse farm.” Horse farm, huh? Now that would he a Maine experience.

Forty-eight hours later I found myself settling in to my new room at the Horse Of Course horse farm in Winterport, an old village along the Penobscot River. My roommates were to be eight horses, a beagle, an Irish Wolfhound, a barn cat, and one extremely nice riding instructor named Linda, who owns and runs this place.

My Miata was an interesting addition to the collection of trucks, hay conveyors and other assorted contraptions that cluttered the barnyard. In fact, my car was a conversation piece for the endless stream of equestrians, potato farmers and neighbors stopping by for a cup of coffee.

The attention my car attracted was fun, yet there were days when I would have preferred to be inconspicuous.

“Hey BLUE!” I heard someone yell as I sat at a red light in downtown Bangor one afternoon. Our police reporter and I were out on assignment. We looked over. There were two guys in a pickup truck hanging out the window. Emphasis on pickup.

“Yeah?” “What kinda car is that?”

When I replied they looked the car over, then us. “Ya wanna trade?”

“I could use a truck,” I said, shrugging. The sting of my jammed trunk had not completely worn off. The light changed and I moved to shift into gear.

As I drove off we could hear him yell, “You want to go for a motorcycle ride?”

A friend from New York came to visit towards the end of my stay here. She craved a few days away from the city and the humidity, and she wanted to make the most of her temporary liberation while her two teenage sons were at camp. She told them she was going up to Maine to drive around with the top down on her friend’s Miata–summer camp for adults.

The weather cooperated, delivering four days of perfect cruising conditions. I charted a route up and down the coast of Maine, and armed with my newly honed navigational skills and a Maine road atlas, we set off. My friend, Flip, spent a lot of her time, eyes closed, smiling, enjoying the sea air as we zoomed along.

“LOOK!”, I would yell, whenever I noticed a particularly beautiful view. She would open her big green eyes, peer out at the ocean, and then with the serenity of a Trappist monk, she would smile and gently let her lids slip shut again.

During our four-day road trip we passed a few Miatas here and there. “Why do you wave at some Miatas and not others?” she said, momentarily rallying from her zen coma.

“Well, you’re supposed to wave,” I explained. “It’s like a secret fraternity or something. But sometimes I can tell that the driver isn’t going to wave back, so I don’t wave.”

Flip was silent, eyebrows raised. “You always wave at other blue Miatas,” she pointed out, trying to identify a pattern. “Well yeah, because there’s a special bond there.”

At this, she couldn’t help herself, sighing, eyes rolling dramatically.

She may have outwardly mocked my Miata fever, but by the end of the trip I could tell Flip was secretly coveting my car. We stopped at one of those scenic overlooks and sat watching the water. “It’s perfect,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the waves pounding the shore. “Perfect.”

One of our final stops was an L.L. Bean outlet. When we returned to the parking lot with our loot we tried to jam cotton blankets and flannel shirts into the trunk. I remembered the pillow incident and warned Flip against over-stuffing. If we couldn’t fit everything in the trunk we were going to have to put the top up and use the back shelf for storage, I remarked.

“No,” she said firmly, shoving packages around fiercely, “whatever happens, the top stays down.”

Whatever happened, I couldn’t go back to the dealer with a stuck trunk again. Where’s a guy with a pickup truck when you need him, I thought.