the name of the town: Ware. W-a-r-e!"
following morning we climbed back into the car and headed toward Ware
(pronounced "where"), about 60 miles west of Boston. I had allowed
myself four hours for the trip, because we planned to eat a relaxed picnic
lunch by the road and still arrive with sufficient time for me to warm up. We
had not gone five miles (or eight antique shops, as distances are sometimes
measured on the Cape) before I recalled having left the entry blank on the
kitchen table. It was not important, except it listed where the race started.
Rose suggested we return for it. "It's a small town," I rationalized.
"Everyone knows about the race. Besides, we have plenty of time."
But on the
highway leading north from the Cape our engine sputtered and then died.
"Oh, boy," shouted Kevin. "We're stalled!" To him parking by
the roadside with your hood up was some sort of status symbol. I failed to
share his enthusiasm. By banging on the carburetor with a tire iron I got the
engine to cough back to life. We traveled the rest of the way with me working
out on the carburetor like Gene Krupa on a snare drum. It was thus that we
arrived in Ware a mere half hour before the race's starting time.
I spotted three
men sitting on a bench near the town hall.
"Can one of
you gentlemen direct me to the road race?"
prodded again. "A road race. Isn't there a race here in town?"
One of the men
eyed our battered car suspiciously. "You planning on racing your auto,