For 20 years the shame has been unbearable

I was on this board in the early 90s as Fattymoon. Apparently those posts are consigned to the nether regions, so I must reiterate.



Very short version - I wrote a poem about teaching my wife to drive a 1991 Mazda Miata. I considered the poem inspired (you can judge for yourself)and submitted it to Car Talk hoping it would be read on this lousy radio show. I submitted it more than once. OK, maybe a hundred times. I never received an answer. I mean, all they had to do was say yay or nay.



The complete story is on Teachers’ Lounge at http://tinyurl.com/27qu6ev



In the next post I shall publish the poem for your consideration.

Before you read the poem, please note that I have twice written Dougie (last week) and have yet to receive a reply to my request. Ok, now, sit back and enjoy!

On Teaching Your Wife to Drive a Five-speed Sports car, or, What is This Clutch Thing, Anyway?

To shift, or not to shift? That is the question-
Whether 'tis nobler to brave the
Five-gated synchromesh monster
With its yet untamed demon clutch
And risk the gnashing of teeth in my mad hunt for third,
Or to drive the distance in second gear,
And, by revving past the blessed redline,
Crack a piston or burn a valve.
'Tis better to shift, methinks,
For who shall love me perchance I blow this
DOHC-16V in-line, 4-cylinder fuel-injected engine?
Aye! There’s the rub.
For who shall love a shiftless woman
As myself? Yet, is love secured by clutching?
Perhaps 'tis better to seek a neutral ground and
Coast to gentle stop.
No! The risk is not the worth,
For the master would only make his gurgling sounds and force me start again,
and thereby tempt the dreaded stall,
Wherein he would surely stable me and
Ride the pleasured pony himself.
Fie! Fie on him! I shall stall no more. Wherefore did he buy this silver
ragtop? Aye, for me, and with half my money! I’ll play his dicey little game
and yet still may win.
Lo! Win I must!
For with the stall dies respect,
And in that death-like sleep
What dreams may unbidden come?
Grinning motorists in their idiot-proof cars,
Shiftless men in lobster suits who dare stop behind me
on the slightest upgrade.
Ha! I am better than those powerglide simpletons. I guide my own destiny.
Switch the pitch, smell the glove,
Break like the wind,
Leaving strips of Yokahama rubber all over the road,
Proof I stall no more.
I shift when I take the mood.
And if I chance the stall,
So be it.
I am woman.
Who but she can bear the whips and scorns of time
With but a bare bodkin twixt her teeth?
Sisters, oh sisters!
Join with me and together we shall
Bare our broccoli at those leering men
In their over-sized Chevrolets.
But,
Ho! Lo! I ramble.
Soft you now, girlie,
Do the right thing.
PUT THE CLUTCH IN!
Oh! Oh! Oh! Yes indeedy I shall. You needn’t yell, master.
Your native hue looks far better
Than this tinge you show me now.
I pray you sir, tis done. The clutch is in.
Shall we go a happy motoring?

Um, gee, I don’t know what to say.
Nay, I started reading but stopped half way through
when I became exhausted for the effort.
Perhaps that’s why
I don’t hang out
In coffeehouses.

Sorry.
By the way, T&R don’t visit here. It’s only us lesser beings.

Nice poem, Mountainbike. Might need a bit of editing for full effect. You ever read Shakespeare?