In which we put key to ignition and send ourselves back down the road.
As so often happens on these sailing adventures, we leave town without having learned much about the host location. Mooresville, NC bills itself as Motor City, USA, and it's firmly in NASCAR territory. Regardless our preoccupation with wind, we observed a lot of car-pride in these red-dirt hills.
While buzzing around town at the start of the week, looking for a spot to park our rig, we saw a Morris Minor sunning itself beside the road.
A Morris Minor Traveller. In Victoria Blue -- a color I remember vividly because in his last couple of years, my Daddo couldn't stop looking for it in every Krylon and Rust-Oleum display we passed.
It was, he told me, a blue somewhere between dark-sky-blue and French cadet blue. An elusive shade we eventually decided to special-order for his restoration project of an armful of Morris Minor Traveller parts. Daddo had admired these quirky work-vehicles during his years in the UK and had begun to put one together, and this was the blue he wanted. After getting his terminal diagnosis, he sold the project as-is and though I remember meeting the buyer, I have no idea where the car went.
It's not so extraordinary, really, as far a coincidental car-sightings go, but there it is, a restored Victoria-blue Moggy, cute and serviceable, maybe a bit tarted-up, but very nearly the image of my dad's automotive dream.
Even though we showed up on their driveway without warning with our big rig (Thanks Steve! Thanks Turi!) the Shaws were gracious hosts. Steve fired up his 1934 Ford hot-rod and reminded me about the uncomplicated joy engendered by acceleration and unfettered engine noise. We burned us some rubber.
Locals in Mooresville point out the (large and lavish) houses of residents named Earnhardt, and Busch, and Andretti. Plus, for aspiring team-members there's a NASCAR technical school in town.
The Flying Scot banquet was held at the Memory Lane Motorsports Museum, a warehouse stuffed full of antique cars, early race-cars, combustion ephemera, and some fairly eerie manikins.
Click on the photos for a larger view.
In the way photos often capture things you didn't see through the viewfinder, I notice upon closer examination that there's a NASCAR photobomber in one shot. The gonzo-green Bantam is being driven by the spaced-out spirt of Hunter S. Thompson. Multiple Richard Pettys (who somewhat resemble a certain skipper we know) seems to be encouraging everyone to take the low road. This was Mooresville, sorry to have it disappear in the back-up camera view.
The ten-hour drive home was -- no surprise -- wet and trafficky, but we made it back to our doorstep without incident, and that's a beautiful thing.
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