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Thank you, Uncle Rico!
I’m downshifting to the year 1975. On this particular sunny, spring morning in March, I’m sitting at one of those lecture hall/desk combos inside Robert’s Hall on the Rhode Island College campus. A pen follows my mind’s dictates along its tour of duty inside a composition book. Having earned my Bachelor of Science degree (magna cum laude) in 1973, and fortunate to land a fifth-grade teaching position that same year, I pursued my Masters of Education degree in earnest.
Two years and 36 credits later—final showdown: the comprehensive examination!
Confident I aced the essay questions, I handed in my booklet. The first person to complete the exam and exit the auditorium, I had big plans to implement. Incidentally, I did ace the exam and earned my Masters of Education (magna cum laude).
I headed straight to Jake Kaplan’s auto dealership at its original location on Elmwood Avenue in Providence to trade my ’73 green Gremlin with gold detailing for a spider brown 1976 Fiat X1/9, 4-speed manual transmission. The two-seater, mid-engine sports car with a wedge shape had retractable headlights and a removable hardtop which could be stored inside the elongated front boot.
Yabba Dabba Doo!
Mind you, I hadn’t quite perfected the art of manually shifting gears. Prior to the day of reckoning for driving my Baby out of the dealer’s lot, a college classmate took me for a couple of test-drive spins in her car so I could get the hang of it.
Well, it’s quite another matter when you’re shoving off from the dealership’s lot on your own into rush-hour traffic on the freeway. I rode the clutch all the way home, fearful of stalling. I considered pulling into my driveway a fait accompli.
So much to coordinate—like how much you need to press down on the gas pedal, and how slowly you need to disengage the clutch for the gears to catch.
Ay-yi-yi!
Uncle Rico to the rescue! A man with the patience of a saint and firm believer in the adage, “practice makes perfect,” he willingly put his fate in my hands. He got in on the passenger side and directed me toward one of those roads less traveled with a hill in his neighborhood.
For however long it took, I practiced until I didn’t stall or roll backward. Then, I took him for a ride around an undeveloped plat in the vicinity, changing up my speed. Thanks to Uncle Rico, I aced the art of driving a sports car, “feeling” the gears and instinctively downshifting or upshifting by the sound of the engine.
Proud as I may have been for earning my Masters of Education, nothing beats the exhilaration of tooling around in a sports car where you’re in complete control of the ride.
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After getting my doctorate in 1974, in 1975 I opted for safety in the mountains of West Virginia by trading my gas guzzling, beat up, 1968 Olds Toronado in for a 1973 used Monte Carlo that I drove for the next 20 years.
The closest I ever came to a Fiat, was when a 124 Spyder that my neighbor failed to set the parking brake adequately for, came down from her driveway, across the road, over my retaining wall and into the wall of my bathroom while I was shaving. It was quite a surprise, but I didn't cut myself.
Sometime during the mid-90s a Ford dealer on the Southwest Freeway that I took every day to work had gathered a number of Fiat X1/9s and had them on display for everyone driving by to see.
Did you keep yours very long? I don't think most people did. They probably required too much maintenance, too often.
Ron
Blessings,
Ann