(This blog is an account of Ronda's Supra build & Oliver's RX7 rebuild, through Guerrilla Tactics' Performance division. Five years ago, Oliver blew up his FD on his way to the latest Superman movie (going faster than a speeding bullet?). It has been sitting in our garage ever since as we had baby after baby with no time or money to rebuild. The time has come. Thank you for following along.)
RONDASaturday, July 23rd (two days ago), I was wandering through the car show at Formula Drift's Throwdown event at Evergreen Speedway where crowds (mostly young men) of people were bent over the engine compartment of various modified imports. As I was trying to keep up with Oliver who was bobbing and weaving between cars, I heard one young man shout to another, "That's a chick's car!" I whipped around at lightning speed just mean muggin' the fool wearing his backwards ball cap and torn up wife beater thinking, "What a jack-ass!" for dissing someone's hard work whether it was his taste or not. Well, he was apparently a mind reader, because he saw me and clarified, "No, a chick drives that car!" It was a declaration of astonishment. Not an insult at all.
Y'all, it was at that moment that I realized I drive a Ford Explorer. Don't get me wrong, I love my Explorer. It's reliable, it's comfortable, it's not a mini-van, it's mechanically sound, it seats all my kids- and I've got a lot of kids. But that's where it ends. I drive the vehicle for those reasons. Not because it is "me." I can't take any personal pride in my vehicle other than that I worked hard enough to earn the money to pay for it. It's not "mine" in that my hands where in it. It's only "mine" because my registration says so.
In short, my first thought was, "I drive a Ford Explorer. (dramatic eye roll directed toward myself) How practical." My second thought, "This is B.S. Next year, someone is going to be saying, 'That's a chick's car!' about my car."
For the remainder of the afternoon I was internally giggling visualizing the look on my husband's face when I pull in the driveway with my new project car.
Over the course of the afternoon, my stomach started doing flip flops in anticipation of my project. It could have been the carnival style Yakisoba I ate earlier in the day, but I was pretty sure it my growing excitement that had my tummy riled up.
By 10 o'clock that evening, I couldn't contain myself any longer... I had to tell someone. I twisted around from my spot in the passenger seat of my Explorer to face our friend Joe riding in the back seat. "I'm buying a car," I blurted out. He nodded courteously and said, "Alright."
Yesterday, I booted up the computer and hit up Craigslist in search of... something. Not sure what. Supra? RX7? 240? 300zx? I'd know when I saw it, I decided. I sifted through page after page of garbage wishing I could narrow my search- but I didn't know precisely what I was searching for.
Not that I was expecting to find what I was looking for on my first shopping day, but I was growing weary and frustrated with the amount of money people wanted for their cars that did not run! People, why are you so proud of your broke down jalopy?
Tiring out, I decided I would finish scanning the page of listings I was on and then move on. Quickly scanning while I scrolled, I was fast coming to the bottom. "Hold up!" my subconscious told me, "Scroll back up." There it was. In Sumner, Washington for $750, his 1988 Toyota Supra didn't run; and with a pregnant wife at home, he didn't have the time, money, tools, mechanical knowledge to diagnose and repair it.
I was meditating on the photos in the listing when Oliver walked in. As usual, he was half way into a conversation upon his entrance and I was expected to catch up. He glanced at the computer screen and flopped down on the spare bed we keep in the office for guests and continued talking about whatever he was talking about. Several seconds later, he stopped in mid-sentence and asked, "Was that a Supra? Why are you looking at a Supra? How much does it cost?" Because that's how Oliver rolls. He does not ask a question and expect an answer. He asks a series of questions and expects an all encompassing answer. After years of studying my husband I am careful to choose my words based on my desired result. I wanted to appeal to his impulsive nature so I answered simply, "Seven hundred fifty bucks."
He catapulted upright, "Are we going to get it?"
"If we do, it's mine," I said.
Perplexed, he asked, "You want a Supra?"
But he didn't wait for an explanation as adrenaline had taken over his body; with phone in hand, his fingers were mindlessly punching in the phone number listed on the ad. He didn't really want to question "why" in case I might change my mind.
90 minutes later, we were in Sumner making a deal. "I shall call her Lucy," I said, "She needs cut loose." (...and so do I)
OLIVER
So, I walk into the office, listing off important matters I need to discuss with Ronda and my subconscious notes that, uncharacteristically, my wife is viewing photos of a MarkIII Supra and next to the photos a smaller window is open with shopping options for various body kits. Once my conscious mind catches up with my subconscious mind, I snap to attention. Would I notice if she had been body snatched? I'd like to think I would. All important matters I toss aside. This is important.
"What's happening to you right now? Have you been snatched? Ronda, are you with me?" I ask.
"Seven hundred fifty bucks," she replies.
That's all the confirmation I need. Best not to ask too many questions. My fingers frantically dialing the number on the screen, my mind is blown- "I'm getting a Supra," I thought.
"No, I'm getting a Supra," counters Ronda.
"Where the eff is Sumner?" I ask, not hearing her answer.
Between home and Sumner, Ronda is on her phone researching a 2JZ conversion. I am confused by the rapid turn of events, but I cannot just forthright ask my wife what has come over her. Ronda is like a wild doe, I have to be careful to appear relaxed, docile, natural. I cannot startle her with an aggressive line of questioning for fear of spooking her. I must respect the animal, or risk her making a run for it across 8 lanes of Interstate 405.
We arrive in Sumner, I climb inside the car. Yuck. Blue leather. That's gotta go. I insert the key, the engine doesn't turn. Of course the guy said it wouldn't but with the dead battery allows me no indication of WHY the engine doesn't turn.
"Who cares?" my wife asks. "We're yanking it out anyway."
Humph.
I crawl underneath and start manhandling the suspension components, "Seems solid." I comment.
"Who cares?" my wife asks. "Were replacing it anyway."
Humph.
I run my hands down the body and sight it for damage. "Body's pretty straight, but the paint-"
"Who cares?" she cuts me off, "It's gotta be painted anyway." Humph.
By now, my mind is racing; "What exactly is she thinking?" "Do I even have time for this project?" "Whose car is this?" And, "This is kinda hot."
We come to an understanding with the vehicle owner, and on the way home, I start talking logistics- what needs done, how long its going to take me, what its gonna cost, and on and on...
"I didn't say you could build my car," she says.
Unsure what to say to that I balk and reply, "I'm sorry. I thought you wanted the best."
"This is my car." she counters.
Is she implying she is building this car? Where do I go from here? She read the question in my eyes. "I'm going to build this car the way I want it... you're gonna show me how."
Humph. Didn't see that one coming.
Back at the house, I recall the day's events. When I woke up this morning, never did I think we'd be buying a Supra... furthest thing from my mind. In fact, I contemplated the Apocalypse happening first. This is true. I had heard that there was a small earthquake outside Carnation, and another on the Olympic Peninsula. It occurred to me that there could be a volcanic eruption ending the Pacific Northwest as we know it. This seemed more probable to me than my wife deciding to buy a Supra.
Humph.
