When you’re 19, it’s more difficult to get a test drive in an old Corvette than a new 911. Strangely, this is also true of driving a new Civic Si, Prius, or GTI, which is less understandable. Whether it’s the Corvette’s reputation for unpredictable handling under power or the fact that ever teenager wants one, I’d driven a half dozen Carreras, old and new, before I finally managed to get seat time in a C5.


I’d scoured the internet for months and stopped at a handful of main dealers and a few used-car outlets, when an unrelated search led me to a “Corvette Specialist” forty minutes south. Forty minutes south of anywhere in upstate New York can charitably be called “rural”, so it took another week for curiosity to overcome skepticism.
Perhaps skepticism should have won out; the dealer possessed a single Corvette, twelve years old and 104,000 miles worn. It sat at the front of the dirt lot, Texas flag drooping from the aerial, leading a pack of moderately diseased SUVs. The shed at the back reeked of moisture, oil, and bourbon; fortunately the keys were handed over without delay and I somehow found myself alone in the black plastic wedge, where I was surrounded by yet more, and less appealing, black plastic.
The console was a dead ringer for that in a friend’s ’98 TranSport minivan, the shift knob was worn smooth, and the wheel was faded and cracking at the top. The seats actually seemed to be shrinking away from any body contact. It was unquestionably revolting, but no one buys a Corvette for the interior, at least not since the 50’s. Eager to get moving and feel 5.7 liters of fury, I twisted the key.

Considerably more fury than I was expecting bellowed from the back of the Corvette. Anemic alarms began peeping all around. A later inspection would reveal a pair of stainless straight pipes running straight to the headers, with the faintest suggestion of a pre-muffler, but at that point I developed a keen interest in vacating the premises. Massive torque, a heavy clutch, and the dry packed dirt under the tires conspired spin the tires for a good twenty yards, fortuitously churning forth the cloud of dust I needed to obscure my getaway.
The upside to rural areas of New York is a fabulous selection of two-lane roads, most sufficiently isolated to avoid aggravating the shotgun-toting, moonshine-swilling locals with “enthusiastic” driving. Goaded by the ruckus behind me, I let the ‘Vette run right to redline through the first few gears, rocketing between cornfields, straddling the center line to avoid being hurled into a ditch by the winter-scarred asphalt.
Banging the recalcitrant shifter into fourth, a wholly undignified but situationally appropriate “Yee-haw!” may have escaped me.
Far sooner than expected, I was out of the fields, trees abruptly blurring past the windows, downhill curve looming ahead. I stomped the brakes, half floated out of the seat, and then fell back and bounced against the door card as I turned in and floored the load pedal again. The tires shuddered over the broken shoulder at the apex, the car wriggled, and then the unholy acceleration resumed.
The road eventually wound down into a quarry. I stopped, gravel crunching under the broad wheels, trying to collect my thoughts and form a coherent impression of the car. The brakes were soft, the steering numb, and the suspension medieval, and yet the performance was miles beyond anything else I’d driven at that point. More shockingly, it didn’t feel like a hundred-thousand-plus mile car. Everything worked as it should, the engine was strong and violently responsive, and it didn’t squeak or rattle. It was ugly, the interior would have been shoddy in a garbage hauler, and the controls were an ergonomic nightmare, but I liked it.

I liked it so much I almost bought it. For a minute, at the end of that road, I forgot all practical concerns, forgot I was saving for another car, forgot that Corvette ownership would probably render me anathema to any girl interested in a relationship longer than 24 hours. I wanted the car, and, worse, I could probably afford it.
Then the angel landed on the other shoulder, and spoke in the voices of my father and my insurance agent.
As I turned the car around to return it from whence it came, the devil slunk back, and in his big-cube rumble, reminded me of my surroundings. I dipped the clutch, engine roar rising and echoing dementedly from the rock faces around me, and spun a single donut, a final salute to Detroit’s finest work.