| AVANTI OWNERS OF THE WORLD - SHARING A DIVINE MADNESS |
Since buying a 1969 red Avanti II in 2005, I have
discovered a generous, warm and gregarious
community of classic car owners and car lovers.
You can learn about this community of
enthusiasts at:
aoai.org
The Avanti, for those not familiar with the car, was
designed by the gifted industrial designer
Raymond Loewy. Studebaker built the car for two
years, 1963-64. When the company went out of
business, two idealistic Studebaker salesmen
bought the rights to the Avanti and continued
making it in limited number. Since those days, the
Avanti continues to be built and loved.
You can read about the history of the Avanti and
how Loewy and the Studebaker team came up
with the design at:
The Birth of Avanti.
discovered a generous, warm and gregarious
community of classic car owners and car lovers.
You can learn about this community of
enthusiasts at:
aoai.org
The Avanti, for those not familiar with the car, was
designed by the gifted industrial designer
Raymond Loewy. Studebaker built the car for two
years, 1963-64. When the company went out of
business, two idealistic Studebaker salesmen
bought the rights to the Avanti and continued
making it in limited number. Since those days, the
Avanti continues to be built and loved.
You can read about the history of the Avanti and
how Loewy and the Studebaker team came up
with the design at:
The Birth of Avanti.
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Tim and Mary on Long Island
after a 100-mile trip.
after a 100-mile trip.
The song Hero Driver, by Oscar
Brand, is from his classic 1960
album, Sports Car Songs for Big
Wheels. This enchanting
collection is still available from
Oscar's web site:
Oscar Brand song catalogue
Brand, is from his classic 1960
album, Sports Car Songs for Big
Wheels. This enchanting
collection is still available from
Oscar's web site:
Oscar Brand song catalogue
My Mom and my Avanti
Reprinted from Avanti Magazine
Spring/Summer 2006
By Tim Sheard
When I was a kid my mom took us to the sports car races at Lime Rock and Watkins
Glen and Bridgehampton. She drove a Mini Cooper S type very fast, drag racing Jags
and Vettes and muscle cars off the line at red lights. She could double-clutch down to
first with the best of them. Sometimes she’d tear up the Harlem River Drive and blow
across the George Washington Bridge flat out on our way home. She never got a ticket.
Maybe it was the legs. Or her laughing eyes.
After years of happy motoring, a dishonest mechanic ripped her off, painting her
damaged engine and claiming to have installed a new one. It broke her heart, but she
traded the car for a Ford Fiesta, and later a Honda CRX – the little two-seat sports car
with five on the floor. She drove the Honda until she was in her seventies, then
switched to a Civic with an automatic so the grandkids could sit in the back. Not that
she slowed down much.
I finally took her car away when she became nearly deaf, half blind, and confused about
how to find her way home to the apartment. But she loved it when I’d drive out to
Jersey on Saturdays and take her out in my car, even though it was only a Diamonte.
Last summer on vacation in Michigan, I said to my wife, Mary, “Look, dear, it’s an old
Avanti for sale.” She poked me in the side and asked me to pull over, “just to take a
look.” Mary had been talking about buying me a classic sports car when I turn sixty,
two years down the road, but it couldn’t hurt to just look the car over. Right?
As soon as I sat in the Avanti, I fell in love with it. Totally blissed out. I drove the vehicle,
Mary in the back, the owner beside me. The car rattled and smoked, fumes filled the
back seat, vibration rode up through the gas pedal, and when I floored it, the car
hesitated, then creeped a little faster, but not much.
Assuming that I hated the beat up, smelly old thing, my wife was shocked when I told
her that was the car for me. Not that car, but an Avanti. After hearing that, Mary
suggested that I sell the gaudy cocktail ring my mom had given her and buy an Avanti.
“I hardly wear the ring,” she reminded me. “And we have two sons, after all; no
daughters to inherit it.”
What a woman!
Back home in Brooklyn I went on the Internet and found a friendly, down to earth fellow
in Florida with a 1969 Avanti II for sale. I liked him. Mary liked his wife. I asked the
fellow what would he sell the car for? He named a price; I told him I’d be happy to pay
it. Sold the ring in Manhattan, mailed a check to Florida, and hired a trucker. Soon my
racing red Avanti II was on the way from Florida. It would take 5-6 days to arrive.
Rather than tell my mom, I decided to surprise her. Her memory was so bad, she
wouldn’t remember the news the next day, anyway. I planned to take her for lunch on
Saturday to the little diner in town that she loved, like always. I would act blasé when I
opened the door to my sexy red sports car and watch her face as she realized she
wasn’t riding to lunch in the Mitsubishi.
The trucker called to say he was in Delaware and would be in Brooklyn late the next
day with the Avanti. I went to bed excited about driving the awesome muscle car.
The next day at work I got the call that every son fears: mom’s home health aide told
me in a trembling voice that my mother had died in her sleep. I’d spoken to her the
evening before; she was having her nightly bourbon and watching the news, like
always. "I'm snug as a bug, don't worry about me," she said, like always. That night she
went to bed and never woke up. Not a bad way to go.
After going out to Jersey to fill out the paperwork at the funeral home, I returned to
Brooklyn to wait for the Avanti. It arrived at midnight, rolling off the carrier under a
cloudy sky. The feeling seated behind the wheel was bittersweet. Turning the key the
first time, I heard the roar of the engine. It was electrifying, drawing patrons out of the
pub across the street. Nothing like straight pipes on a small block Chevy to draw a
crowd. She was a beauty.
I dropped the tranny into first and left a long streak of rubber on the street. Mom would
have been proud of her son.
Reprinted from Avanti Magazine
Spring/Summer 2006
By Tim Sheard
When I was a kid my mom took us to the sports car races at Lime Rock and Watkins
Glen and Bridgehampton. She drove a Mini Cooper S type very fast, drag racing Jags
and Vettes and muscle cars off the line at red lights. She could double-clutch down to
first with the best of them. Sometimes she’d tear up the Harlem River Drive and blow
across the George Washington Bridge flat out on our way home. She never got a ticket.
Maybe it was the legs. Or her laughing eyes.
After years of happy motoring, a dishonest mechanic ripped her off, painting her
damaged engine and claiming to have installed a new one. It broke her heart, but she
traded the car for a Ford Fiesta, and later a Honda CRX – the little two-seat sports car
with five on the floor. She drove the Honda until she was in her seventies, then
switched to a Civic with an automatic so the grandkids could sit in the back. Not that
she slowed down much.
I finally took her car away when she became nearly deaf, half blind, and confused about
how to find her way home to the apartment. But she loved it when I’d drive out to
Jersey on Saturdays and take her out in my car, even though it was only a Diamonte.
Last summer on vacation in Michigan, I said to my wife, Mary, “Look, dear, it’s an old
Avanti for sale.” She poked me in the side and asked me to pull over, “just to take a
look.” Mary had been talking about buying me a classic sports car when I turn sixty,
two years down the road, but it couldn’t hurt to just look the car over. Right?
As soon as I sat in the Avanti, I fell in love with it. Totally blissed out. I drove the vehicle,
Mary in the back, the owner beside me. The car rattled and smoked, fumes filled the
back seat, vibration rode up through the gas pedal, and when I floored it, the car
hesitated, then creeped a little faster, but not much.
Assuming that I hated the beat up, smelly old thing, my wife was shocked when I told
her that was the car for me. Not that car, but an Avanti. After hearing that, Mary
suggested that I sell the gaudy cocktail ring my mom had given her and buy an Avanti.
“I hardly wear the ring,” she reminded me. “And we have two sons, after all; no
daughters to inherit it.”
What a woman!
Back home in Brooklyn I went on the Internet and found a friendly, down to earth fellow
in Florida with a 1969 Avanti II for sale. I liked him. Mary liked his wife. I asked the
fellow what would he sell the car for? He named a price; I told him I’d be happy to pay
it. Sold the ring in Manhattan, mailed a check to Florida, and hired a trucker. Soon my
racing red Avanti II was on the way from Florida. It would take 5-6 days to arrive.
Rather than tell my mom, I decided to surprise her. Her memory was so bad, she
wouldn’t remember the news the next day, anyway. I planned to take her for lunch on
Saturday to the little diner in town that she loved, like always. I would act blasé when I
opened the door to my sexy red sports car and watch her face as she realized she
wasn’t riding to lunch in the Mitsubishi.
The trucker called to say he was in Delaware and would be in Brooklyn late the next
day with the Avanti. I went to bed excited about driving the awesome muscle car.
The next day at work I got the call that every son fears: mom’s home health aide told
me in a trembling voice that my mother had died in her sleep. I’d spoken to her the
evening before; she was having her nightly bourbon and watching the news, like
always. "I'm snug as a bug, don't worry about me," she said, like always. That night she
went to bed and never woke up. Not a bad way to go.
After going out to Jersey to fill out the paperwork at the funeral home, I returned to
Brooklyn to wait for the Avanti. It arrived at midnight, rolling off the carrier under a
cloudy sky. The feeling seated behind the wheel was bittersweet. Turning the key the
first time, I heard the roar of the engine. It was electrifying, drawing patrons out of the
pub across the street. Nothing like straight pipes on a small block Chevy to draw a
crowd. She was a beauty.
I dropped the tranny into first and left a long streak of rubber on the street. Mom would
have been proud of her son.
Mom's S type and my
brothers Mini.
brothers Mini.
