The Rake Magazine

Author: Chris Birt

  • My Fifth Wife's Life

    I received an e-mail that this Ron guy insisted I publish along with a picture of his scarcely-aged trophy (above). This has not been spell-checked and is re-produced unmolested (bad choice of word?)

    I am writing this on behalf of my wife and son to your
    snarky blogger named Bert. My name is Ron Spellman and I own more cars than your
    pissant perpetrater of automotive polemic ever has. My wife currently drives a
    Veyron for her grocery getter, you little bastard, as I want my foie gras to remain
    appropriately firm and chilled from the first bite to the last. (Bellagio* does take-out in Telluride.) In fact, I am so rich that I hire unpaid interns from Bennigton College (the most expensive liberal arts
    school in the country—which would be in Vermont) to respond to my
    e-mail and write my blog. I can hardly fathom why I stoop to address the wanten
    stupidity that emanates from The Rake, but my wife has insisted. In fact, she
    wants you all to know that she does know the difference between an Audi and an
    Enzo. It seems however that we had to wait too long for the latter so she
    purchased the Audi to tide e.e.clinton over till the 650 HP Enzo in racing red
    arrived in Benni, I am mean Boston. Our son is impatient. What’s wrong with
    that? It’s not like he spends all his time on a blog during school or some stupid
    sh, I am mean stuff, like that.

    (*Bellagio is so great. I don’t care that Wynn has the Ferrari dealership in Vegas even though he makes makes people pay for entrance. That’s really cool but not not as cool or class as Bellagio.)

  • How Clinton Wrecked His Ferrari

    When you have enough money, you call your son Clinton or Caufield or something stilted enough to create an affect. You also (or so the guys at the Porsche dealership tell me) buy your kid a car he or she should never try to pilot. Of course, this results in great websites.

    The pictured vehicle is not a Ferrari. It is the new Audi exotic. Some stupid kid drove and wrecked the thing all the same. I cannot vouch for his name, but I am virtually certain it was not Bill, Barrack, or pray tell something as plain as "John."

    The sugar daddy was likely a big contributor to Bill or Hillary’s campaign and decided to give his first born by his fifth wife the naming rights. The new wife being of firmness other than mind decided to score still more points, perhaps, with the original political lothario.

    It seems recently, however, when the little Clinton screamed for his first car dumb Mommy went out and purchased an Audi instead of a beast from Maranello.

    This could be payback.

    And yet, it may not last for long. Read "Why Rich Kids Don’t Stay Rich."

  • Sei Moa Me

    You may not know this yet but there is a woman out there that will drive little men like you crazy. I say little men because she is a woman of stature that does not need a car to prove her worth.

    But what rides she owns.

    She favors late ’60s muscle car cruisers that look good going down the boulevard and fast when you slam them to the floor.

    Her name is Seimone Augustus and she’s a whole lot more than a female basketball star. She’s relatively young but she already knows enough to favor the "old school" when it comes to rides. You’ll sei moa them soon right here. They’re almost as stunning as the woman herself.

    I’ve included a photo of the neighborhood around New Orleans where we snapped some photos of Seimone. This should give you some indication of the car culture in the Big Easy. The day was overcast and the dealership was closed but I did see some cherried out rides. 

    Ms. Seimone, as I noted, is partial to smooth cruisers that offer just enough torque to gently adjust the spine. I tend fo favor overpowered modern-day muscle cars that are loud enough to announce my arrival.

    Why do I feel this way?

    Perhaps I am just another little man. 

    And she remains the Giant.  

     

  • Malibu Barbie. Yours At Last.

    I never thought it would happen.

    Chevrolet has made a car that people like you will want.

    ..Want like that song you sing to yourself in those private automotive moments when you hope no one is watching.

    ..Want like that Barbie you think about and hope is sentiment you pray no one will share. (Especially not Elliot as he can afford it, or so he thinks).

    I am talking about the new Chevrolet Malibu. It drives better than Saturn Aura and is more comfortable than a Camry. It also shares interior appointments with other "high-content" GM stablemates like Cadillac.

    You don’t need pictures.

    Just think of what it will mean to get your hands on Barbie.

    At last.

    (I am thinking like the Guv’ Pig of New York today, My apologies.)

     

     

  • "Edina Mom" above Mammaries

    Look, I deeply understand that trenchant matters of importance are upon us. Hillary is imploding, the silver haired wren is the latest casualty of climate change (speaking as an amateur orthonologist, it matters), sticky sidewalks in downtown Minneapolis are about to be re-introduced due to the flaccid governance of a weak Mayor system in spite of the fervor of one Raymond Thomas.

    And yet.

    From my little corner of the online world, I keep getting comments from suburban daughters protesting what they consider a creepy commentary on an Edina female sending her kids off to "camp."

    While the page views are not about to unseat the Chocolate Rapper or Austin Hall’s hands any time soon, the personal attacks on me have crossed from online to the check-out line at Lunds. I was cornered by a soccer mom last night as I discussed cars with the check-out dude and started talking about the Road Rake. Apparently, her daugther and a friend have been dissing my exposure of a Ferrari-clad mom in the lobby of Colonial Church last summer.

    Note the derision in the daughter’s voice:

    "yah so what she wears a ferrari jacket…. OMG thats outrageous who
    cares like you took the time out of your day to make some video about
    some lady for edina… what i want to know is why are you looking at
    this womens chest reading her shirts when you are sending your kids off
    to camp who cares what shes wearing say goodbye to your kid and then go
    you think your kid is proud that you spend your time making jealous
    videos…"

    The Road Rake will not stoop to answer a coddled cake-eater at YouTube.

    On the other hand, I would like to point out to my blog readers that the chest footage has nothing to do with my observation that a woman, wearing a Ferarri jacket, who sends her kids off to a three-day "camp" with care packages the size of a Marshall Plan drop probably could not tell a real car from real kid.

    George Marshall (pictured) could.

  • Born From Jets. A Saab Story.

    (Pictured: The tiny "Ursaab" 92001 which reminds me of a small plane stepped on by an elephant.)

    I give to you, again, a post from Kurt Nelson, skier, writer, road pilot, with a few thoughts on automotive flight:

    Born from Jets: You have all seen the advertising for Saab,
    touting their long heritage in aeronautics and airplane history. Well, this is not really a jet story, but it
    does involve a Saab leaving the ground, so I guess Born from Jets is accurate. Saab was started as an aeronautics company,
    and in the mid 1940s a group of their engineers decided to build a car, which
    resulted in the Saab 92001 or “Ursaab” and the rest is history.

     

    (Pictured: A jet fighter plane in the SAAB Museum, and we all thought Swedes were pacifists.)

    I have had the happy occasion of getting my Saab off the
    ground a number of times over the years, but it was the first time that evokes
    such good memories and makes me continue to look for places to launch.

    A few years ago, my wife and I bought some property in
    Northwest Wisconsin, a very rural area, with great roads, ribbons of blacktop
    that stretch for miles and undulate with the local terrain, over peat bogs and
    thru white pine forests. Where most people just see a road to their cabin, I
    see roads that beckon for me to put my car to the test. It is in that spirit that this story comes.

    Driving alone one morning to go for a mountain bike ride, I
    went past our normal access road, looking for another entry into the
    forest. The road had a large dip, one
    with a steep upside and a flat entry or landing depending on your point of
    view. My immediate thought was, hey, I
    could probably get my car off the ground if I try; and being one who likes to
    try, I gave it a shot.

    I turned around and started into the approach again, but
    with a little more urgency, in fact I
    was giving it thru 3 gears, up to about
    80mph, I rode up the steep side, and launched at the apex, now this was not 3
    feet off the ground, more like all 4 wheels left the pavement for a time, I
    landed softly, but In my usual doubting way I thought, did I really leave terra
    firma, or was this just hopeful thinking.
    I turned around and tried it again.
    This time I hit the steep side at 90, and this time I heard the wheels
    spinning and engine revving as I left the pavement, so I knew that I had
    succeeded in getting weightless albeit for a brief instant.

    A couple of weeks later my wife and I were going to spend
    the day at the property hiking and maybe a mountain bike ride, with a
    picnic. Knowing full well that I was going to let her in on the fun. I approached the dip, and rather than tell
    her what was going to happen I just got on the go peddle, getting the tires to
    chirp in 3 gears. We hit the dip at 90,
    and launched, all the while she was
    laughing with child like joy, and enthusiasm.

    Not only did we get off the ground, we did it twice so I could hear that
    laughter again. how you approach it, and for me and my car born from
    jets, getting in the air is an appropriate nod to heritage.

  • Homosexual Hot Rods. OK.

    Its no secret that I am an afficionado of both hot rods and message boards. The two form a less than poltically correct union however. For example, a old favorite of mine the Honkey Ass Message Board or H.A.M.B has been an exceptionally well-crafted and written forum.

    Till some egits began posting their thoughts on the origins of the term "hot-rod" asking, in their own scintillating syntax whether the term is "totally gay."

    Do me a favor and enter this forum as it seems some more issues need to come out.

  • Doncha' Wish Your Benz Was …

    You know what they say–if pictures could sing.

    Well this is the last of my photo batch from that National Musee’ D’Automotive in France. I have been saving her picture because she is the car that spoke to me more than any other.

    I think that is because this Benz seems like a female sibiling of the SSK that dominated so many race tracks in the 1930s. I never realized that brute had a twin–much less a sister.

    Don’t you wish?

  • Speeding Down Everest

    (Pictured above: A bulletin board in a ski racer’s hut. The love of speed leads to a lack of problems. At least those with names.)

    Last week I included a trenchant post from a skier. I hope to have more comments from this caliber of athlete–the most ballsy of breeds.

    On that note, I mentioned the concept of "vertical speed." Ski racing and auto racing (hence the link to this blog, duh) have a great deal in common: speed, line, the laws of physics, psychotic pursuit.

    As such, I feel both sports have much to recommend to the average couch potato on the eve of the Super Bowl. While its been fun watching football on snow this past month, a far greater feat on frozen ground was acheived by a Japanese skier with linebacker legs.

    In 1970, Yuchio Miura (pictured at left) skied down Mount Everest. You can watch the spot below. Its better than a Super Bowl automobile ad by well over a mile–the length he skied before crashing 200 feet short of a cliff.

    lhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piNRRg7WuG8

  • Frozen Butts & Boost

    (e.d. This is a well-considered weigh-in on the beauty of boost. I experienced this in heavy doses last night. Kurt Nelson is a top-notch ski-racing coach who knows more than me about horizontal and vertical speed. Pictured: The terror of all turbos—the Porsche 935.)

    “There is no replacement for displacement” — that hackneyed
    old saying that those who love the big Detroit iron like to chant when the
    subject of turbocharging comes into the conversation. Sure — as Chris spoke about a while back with
    regard to thrust — a tuned V8 will give you prodigious thrust, but what really gives
    you a kick in the ass is boost. Mash the
    throttle in the mid RPM range, wait just a second for the turbo to spool, and
    hold on. Now, that is driving. Power is
    not linear, like in a normally aspirated engine; it spikes with a kick that leaves
    most cars in the dust, wondering how that sedan just did what it did.

    And speaking of SAAB Turbos

    Above: Pike’s Peak SAAB Turbo. K’s ride shares the same genes.

    With the dense cold air that has invaded us during the past couple
    of days, the turbo really shines. More
    air in means more air out, and that is what boost is all about: air flow. Cold air is much more dense than warm, which
    is why getting on the go peddle in the cold is so much more fun in winter — if
    only my snow tires would grip more. Open
    the air intake, increase the size of the exhaust, and you have an immediate
    increase in drivability. The turbo
    spools much more quickly, and the intercooler does not soak as much heat with
    repeated bursts of boost. Just today,
    for example, with the ambient temperature of about 0, I was able to get the
    tires to break loose in four gears, spinning madly in the first two, and chirping
    with three and four. Full boost in three and four is
    about 21 lbs, at 4000 rpm, tapering to a sustained 17 lbs up to redline, and
    that translates to about 120 mph. Try as
    I may, I just do not have the oomph to get them loose in fifth, but
    the Saab pulls hard until 150 mph, so that’s cool.

    So, next time you are thinking that you need a bunch of
    cylinders to give you the power you think you need, guess again. My little 2.3l gives me 130hp per liter. Try to find a normally aspirated engine that
    gives that type of output. As Chris can
    attest, from a little test drive last night, turbo charging rocks.