2005.04.24 L-Luh-Luh-Lotus

File:Lotuslogo.gif DELIGHTFUL DYSPHONIA

GAH.

I'm not sure whether the problem is more about how my thoughts intrude so much that I have difficulty speaking them, or about how little faith I have in people understanding them. I start to expound, and my eyes go crazed and I start muttering words on top of each other in a peculiar kind of singsong idiocy.

Oh, not in general. I'm specifically referring to my recent reaction to the Lotus Elise.

As a car enthusiast, I've heard about these little beasties for some time now. Their driving characteristics are the stuff of fishing stories. However, their abject lack of realistic utility has kept them largely out of my orbit of consideration, as I'm looking for not just a sports car but also a sports car that I can reasonably commute in and go on road trips in. Because, well, I'm probably going to sink all my money into just the one car. It was actually in the service of this quest that I stumbled across my problem with the little Lotus.

I noticed that a new exotic car dealership just recently sprang up near me, called Grand Prix Imports, and they were advertising a very likely-looking Porsche 911 Carrera 4. While I was there, I got a really good look at the Lotus Elise. I've actually seen these cars a few times before - they're tiny, slightly ugly, and almost ridiculous-seeming overall - and since I was in extremely crowded settings I didn't really have much opportunity to be particularly careful or objective about my regarding of them. This time, it was just me and the Lotus.

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My eye caught on the stance of the car as viewed from the rear - it spoke to my engineering brain quite clearly what the low and wide stance was supposed to accomplish. I drew closer, and appraised the car much more carefully, looking at the super lightweight construction and utterly spartan accoutrements, and my pupils dilated wide. That irreverent spark that burns deep inside of me, that disdains all such things as comfort and practicality, that loved shivering and rattling in my cherished MGB that I spend my food money to repair and fuel - that spark went incandescent and cauterized my softening sensibilities. A primal spine-stiffening scream reverberated from my lusting heart, and it was saying "YES! THIS IS ME! YES!!!" My minds eye suffered flashes of double-vision; one the dilated view of the world viewed low and fast, and the other of me slung low in the Lotus with the biggest stupidest grin I'm physically capable of. As my staggering brain fought back for control, the scream diffused through me leaving tingles in my fingertips and toes.

And a deep breath is required. Just try to peel your eyes past the NASA-esque statistics for the Lotus and look at that luggage capacity figure. Four (4) cubic feet. Not forty. Four. And it's usually filled with the car's soft top. That's it, just behind the engine:

What's under that sculpted front? A radiator, some suspension and steering components, and your feet. The damn thing barely has a passenger seat - it's more of an un-upholstered integral aluminum sidecar.

And, damn it, I love it. In all it's fast-driving-oriented narcissistic perfection.

But, damn it, it's hard to properly convey it to others. I start telling them about how incredibly perfect the little Lotus is, in its entirely impossible way, and I end up mumbling vague statistics and attributes, and my eyes get watery and I whisper the name "Miranda". Then I become self conscious, and my eyes narrow in angry suspicion at the practical-car-driving bastards surrounding me, knowing that none of them can truly understand what I mean anyway.

I mean, how do you explain the signficance of your beating heart with mere words?