Revelations in Fiberglass and Aluminum

When I was ten years old, my father took me to see Star Wars. As we walked out of the theater into the blinding sun, he asked me what I thought of the film. I couldn’t answer him; I was literally speechless. I had no words to convey how radically my world had just changed.

A decade later, I drove an Elise for the first time. When my long-suffering and equally gearheaded roommate asked me how it was, all I could manage was a strangled “Good.” My entire automotive paradigm had just been shattered. Before that day, I had considered the E46 M3 and S2000 CR the most accomplished automobiles made. They were absurdly fast, telepathically precise, and utterly without flaw. In a single afternoon they had been totally superceded by a car that, by any objective standard, wasn’t actually very good.

Autobahn rockets are hardwired into my vehicular consciousness. My parents owned a series of increasingly rapid German sedans; cars which, once I learned to drive, I considered mine. This was, I felt, fair due to my willingness to drive them the way they were meant to be driven (it was several years later that I learned my father had thrashed them just as hard as I had). The first car I drove, the first car I spun, the first car I totaled- all were missiles from the Fatherland. Small, plastic British things with tiny Toyota motors were unworthy of serious consideration.

This willful ignorance was abetted by the dearth of Lotus dealerships in New York. Once I had relocated to Pennsylvania, however, the fact that there was one quite close made an eventual test drive inevitable.

The dealership itself was a tiny brick garage and showroom, wedged between a defunct factory and a slightly run-down Gulf station still proudly displaying the evocative blue and orange. A weather-beaten sign declared Austin-Bentley-Triumph. There has never been a more compelling locale for a first encounter with a Lotus.

Truth be to tell, I’d never even seen an Elise before that afternoon. The car in question was white, filthy, and breathtaking. Outrageously curved, knee-high, with tantalizing glimpses of mechanical bits behind a dozen slashed and screened vents, it dominated the tiny lot. No easy feat when parked between a Continental GT and a Phantom.

The man I’d been in contact with appeared as stereotypically British as the cars he sold. Tweed cap, canvas overcoat, and a pipe; only his Pittsburgh twang spoiled the illusion. He was waiting with keys in hand and unhesitatingly showed me how to remove the flimsy roof, despite the November chill. I’d never used an immobilizer before; it took me three fumbling tries to start the car.

Before we’d even left the lot I hated the Lotus. The gearchange was a sloppy mess, the unassisted steering was obnoxiously heavy, and I was getting to know the salesman far better than I’d planned to.

An additional 20mph transforms the Elise. All the fidgety little motions synchronize into a fluid surge down the road, everything suddenly starts to make sense. The steering transforms into an extension of your nerves, every leaf and camber sensed, every bump felt but shrugged off. The engine starts to pull with real vigor, and the fact that you can’t see behind you no longer matters, because the little Lotus absolutely refuses to obey speed limits. It gains velocity with the slightest brush of the accelerator, and the illegibility of the gauges is a convenient excuse to ignore them.

We started up a hill, all second-gear twists, and I was suddenly unsure again. The car communicates so well that the first sign of effort initially feels like the approach of the limit. You learn to keep pushing, though, and suddenly you’re flying; every nerve buzzing, totally committed and completely in control. The rest of the world vanishes.

When I got to the stop sign atop the hill it was disorienting, like a camera zooming out too fast, the cessation of motion leaving me unfocused. Before my head cleared I was turning around, headed back down the hill. I needed to drive this car; drive it until the fuel ran out.

The man in the cap understood, I think. I said nothing, but he pointed me down back road after back road until the sun was low in the sky. At the end, we jumped onto the freeway for a shortcut back to the dealership. The car became noisy and bumpy again, but somehow it no longer mattered; it was still perfection. The wind battered around me as we crested a long bridge and fell ever faster toward the off-ramp, back to earth.

In the lot my Saturn waited, also small and plastic but utterly joyless. I was still smiling as I climbed in, though. I could wait for my Lotus.

Image Credits: “Horrgakx” on flickr

Author’s Note: The Lotus dealer featured in this article closed this week. I’m not sure I can convey the sense of loss I felt at the news. This was one of the truly formative experiences of my automotive life, and a piece of that history is gone forever. Like the Elise, Ascot Imported Cars had an indescribable sense of soul and heritage unique among car dealers. It will be missed.

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