Triumphest 2006

The trip seemed promising -- after all, the first bolt didn't fall off until we were completely out of the neighborhood. And, even though we left one half hour later than planned, as Mitch needed to get Diane (God love this woman) jerry-rigged into the Spitfire due to her recent shoulder surgery. And, as you continue to read, you will undoubtedly come to the conclusion that we all did: she is an absolute saint.

Boys and their toys. After three different "mechanical" stops along I-15 between Salt Lake and Fillmore, one of which involved a toothpick from Diane's purse, she and I started to get the hang of it.

"Good job, dear…way to figure that out without a crow bar."
"Wow, honey! I love the way you handle those…'whatevers.'"
"Hey Mitch, can you just make it go?"

And yes indeed he did…right over his cell phone, which he had dropped out of the car seconds before. Lucky for that cute couple, though…it only took Mitch forty miles before he realized it was gone. Michael and I waited in the beautiful lobby of Whiskey Pete's casino and hotel in Vegas. Yeah, I need to have a word with that Pete guy.

The Triumph gods were with us, as Mitch found his phone in the parking lot where it had fallen, and it still worked! Now he even had the added feature of colorful, swirly lines running through it. Mitch was groovin' to his pretty new lava lamp when they walked into the hotel.

Like I said, this was not the Bellagio, where I had hoped to catch a Monet exhibit. We decided to live on the edge instead…with Pete. But all was not lost. Who knew that if you stared at a slot machine for long enough it could take on certain "Impressionistic" qualities?

Saint Diane gingerly, but nobly, got back into the Spitfire next morning for the killer ride into Santa Barbara. Keep poppin' those pills, Darlin'! (She wasn't, but I surely would have been).

Finally, Santa Barbara, and the Marriott (thank God). The boys were in hog heaven…a parking lot jam- packed with hot wom…cars. On second thought, it might just as well have been women, as the guys were out there all day "checking out" engines, and what turns them on, bodywork, and invisible bras-Mitch has one.

Friday morning, we went on a tour of the Santa Barbara hills. Beautiful. The weather was sunny and warm.

Yes, Triumphest. Great cars, great food. Could it get any better? Apparently, yes. We were lucky enough to go on a tour of Moss Motors. Diane was…well, should have been at some thousand-dollar day spa, and I was set to begin Stephen Crane's Red Badge of Courage at the pool when "Car Boys" showed up with some song and dance about going on a tour of some warehouse called Moss Motors. Moss Motors is the car candy store. Men's Mecca. Remember Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory? Kids taking out other kids just to get a glimpse inside that mystifying, magnificent chocolate paradise? This was even better. Our guys could barely breathe. I was doubtful from the look of the place, but Mitch assured me there would be things I could buy inside….shirts and shoes, I think he said.

On the way, we went on a tour of the Santa Barbara hills. Beautiful. The weather was sunny and warm….perfect for our little convertibles. These California hills were made for our cars---twists and turns galore. And, Michael Douglas' digs for the gals (we're not sure which one was his, but we know we were close). Michael and Mary were lucky enough to travel in style with Dolby Stereo surround sound provided by Jim somebody, behind us in a baby blue TR3. He had an awesome bandana on, and we could choose from the blasting Bee Gees, or Queen-"Mama Mia let me go…" Jim's singing at the top of his lungs and drumming on the steering wheel was awesome, too.

Uh huh. The inside of that joint was something. Or something else. The décor was underwhelming at best. Color scheme in the brown tones. Cardboard box brown tones. Floor was plywood brown. Shelves with millions of boxes full of every kind of gizmo you'd ever need for your Triumph. And older than spit. I figure they call it Moss Motors because everything in there is so old it's growing moss.

I kept looking for shoes. No luck. Many shoe boxes, but no sling backs, pumps or stilettos. No clothes either. Except for tent-sized shirts with Mini Coopers emblazoned on the fronts.

Darn you, Mitch!

Solvang. Finally, Diane and I found our own little paradise. The quaint "little Denmark" just outside of Buellton was filled with dozens of little boutiques all tucked beneath thatched roofs. The quiet little city made for some lovely evening strolls, delectable dinners and positively posh Danish pastries.

Saturday morning broke, crisp and bright. This was the highlight of the trip. The boys---all of them-had been up since sunrise getting their girls ready. Who would be crowned Miss Triumph? The runway was ready. Each contestant was preened, polished and poised to flaunt her stuff before the judges using the 3-foot rule. This was a clear advantage for all of the cars…given the fact that they all had enhancements, facelifts, and tummy tucks. Some needed nose jobs…like the TR7s.

Our boys' cars made the final cut, winning gold medals.

Now---the truth about why one should not mix sports cars with men and too much testosterone. The car rally!

Picture the running of the Bulls. With lots of red cars. Don't ever think, for even a second, that "competition' is not screaming through ever man's veins as hot and red as Tabasco. The rally is timed, covers sixty miles, and each team must find answers to questions from clues found on the course. Man, was this a treat. Like Maverick in "Top Gun," Michael turned me into "Goose," the navigator. "Talk to me, Goose," he yells at me as he flies around a turn. "Do you see any MIGS???" "I mean, clues?"

Yeah. He forgets he's talking to a woman who gets lost in Crossroads Mall. Whatever. We spent a lot of time driving in reverse…"did we miss it?" We also spent a lot of time going up and down one street looking for a clue, with every other Triumph in the rally---twenty of us.

It all ended. We were eliminated from the race, as we were over our time limit. Michael assures me we lost because I made him go back three miles to find a clue on a wooden cross that wasn't there.

Homebound. We didn't want to leave the beautiful, temperate climate, sunshine and year-round driving.

Congrats should go out to Mitch and Diane, who adopted a darling pair of ceramic gnomes on the way home from a sketchy, red-neck road side souvenir stand named Charlie Brown's.

The trip was priceless. We drove our tails off (2,000 miles), laughed our heads off (2,000 miles), took in wondrous scenery for 2,000 miles, minus Barstow, and made memories to last a lifetime.

I never finished The Red Badge of Courage. I don't need to---I watched Diane carry it around in a sling for a week.

-- Mary Scoggins

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