Up the Line

"Wow, that's some car," I said to the young man.  We were on the car ferry, heading from Fitzroy Harbour to Quyon.  I love taking that ferry, sort of a 10-minute mini-cruise. 

"What kind of car is it? I asked, having no idea.  "It's a Shelby," he replied.  Well, I had heard of the Shelby, named for racing legend and car desinger Carroll Shelby.  This sleek, black beauty was parked on the Quyon ferry alongside the rest of our pails.  "Holy cow," I exclaimed.  "A Shelby!" 

Peppering the owner with questions, I learned he had paid $90,000, it had 700 horsepower and its engine had been personally signed by Shelby himself before he died at 89 last year.  He proudly raised the hood and I took a bunch of pictures.  By now everyone on the ferry had emerged from their cars to oogle it.  You could tell the owner had no qualms about the $90,000 with such an adoring audience. 

"It just hauls mind-bending ass," says the description of the GT 500 (boosted to 800) on google.  Quite the car.  "Is it a chick-magnet?" I asked the guy.  "I don't know 'cause I'm married," the poor stiff replied.  I mean, why buy a $90,000 car when you have no chance of a payoff?  Aren't cars and girls supposed to go together?  They used to.  As he drove off ahead of us, I heard the familiar deep brrrrrr of the motor.  A very seductive sound.

The last "muscle" car we owned was a 2006 Mustang, white convertable with black leather interior.  It was a GT 500.  We had a great time with that car.  It always shocked people when they saw that a middle-aged lady was behind the wheel.  Whaaaaaaaat?! 

A word about the Quyon ferry.  It has been operated by the same family for generations and plows back and forth all day and night while the river is open.  More polite and helpful the crew of two could not have been.  I was driving and they successfully coached me into a tight corner I thought I would never navigate.  Charming. 

We were off visiting great and good friends in Bristol for lunch "up the line", as they say.  My roots are in Kemptville, so when I am in The Valley, I feel truly at home.  Dirt poor Irish.  In spite of the fact that we were in Quebec, not a word of French is ever spoken in these parts.  English, English, English and Irish, Irish, Irish.  Period, the end.  And you better not think otherwise. 

I took pics of the car and will post them soon.