STEEL, LEATHER AND GASOLINE by Tom O'Neill by Ben Maurice Brown

                          STEEL, LEATHER AND GASOLINE

                                            Tom O'Neill

Steel, Leather and Gasoline: combinations that can make powerful men weak, weak men feel strong and virtually all men affected. Inauspicious in their origins, yet in there final forms, they are things of wonder; works of art. The blending of these disparate components is nowhere better rendered than in the classic automobile from theera roughly bracketed by the 1930s through the50s. My bias is toward Donald Healey,  with his Austin Healey 100, when he pulled these components together into a form that binds ones gut, brain and heart into a visceral experience of sight, sound, smell and feel.


Sir Donald stands out because he understood the emotional pull that Steel, Leather and Gasoline, in the form of the European open sports car, had on the American GI returning home after the World War ll. The Healey 100 blends style with grit; the influence of Italian design sensitivity with British roughness, utilizing an engine and transmission from a truck. As an international marketing visionary Donald Healey built a machine for every man that made him feel like a very special man.


Heres how it happened for me.


It took me a little while to figure the car thing out. As a little kid growing up in the late 40s and early 50s cars were something for men with families. My dad had Buicks and Cadillacs; big luxurious 4 door cars with soft cushy fabric interiors and huge long folds of metal on the outside. My older brother had a Model A Ford with a rumble seat thatwas a lot fun to ride in, but it still seemed like an old persons car. For me, 1955 was the year that changed my life. The 55 Chevy with its new V8 engine brought cars roaringinto my life. My friend, Dick Peterson had one painted dark gray and kind of pink. I was a freshman in high school in 1955 and Rock & Roll was changing life, as we knew it. Bill Hailey and the Comets were rocking us around the clock, while Elvis terrorized our parents with his gyrating hips. James Dean showed us how to be cool as rebels with or without a cause. It was a neat time to be a kid.


At 14, I was not legally driving a car yet, other than running my dads Roadmaster up and down the driveway, but I was practicing my cool riding with Dick in that Chevy. Wed drive around with the radio blasting, Splish Splash, Im Taking a Bath, by Bobby Darrin, with our arms hanging out the windows.  With our sleeves rolled up and skinny littlearms pressed against the side of the car to make our muscles look bigger, we cruised the streets looking for chicks. Dick had a ducks ass hair due, like Troy Donahue, and I had a buzz cut like a WW ll fighter pilot. Wearing my car club jacket, I felt like a combination of a James Dean rebel and a Korean War Saber Jet pilot.


Car clubs were starting to be a big thing and my neighborhood buddies formed a club called The Customs. The club jacket was a deep blue wool gabardine with the words, The Customs, scrolled in silver thread on the back. At 411 and 98lbs, the jacket covered me like a tent, scarcely enhancing my self-image as a rebel, much less one with a cause. Cars and the pursuit of the intimate parts of girls were our main cause at the time. As I said,   I


wasnt driving yet but I was there with my friends when the club started so I was an honorary car-less member.


It was the cars of the fifties that, not only defined our lives at the time, but also affected some of us for life. Over the four years of high school and my tenure in The Customs, the cars we drove were awesome compared to what most kids know today. Our cars were packed with cool stuff like four-barrel carburetors, ¾ race cams and Posi-traction 4/11 rear ends. They were lowered and channeled and chopped. We drove fearfully fast in straight lines and frightfully sloppy around bends. Our cars were made to go straight, quickly, and curves were a necessary burden that interfered with our ability to apply huge amounts of power to smoking tires and screaming transmissions. Tachometers were unknown to us at the time so we shifted according to the sound of the engine. When the clatter and roar reached a crescendo signaling imminent destruction, we shifted. The term we coined was, floating the valves. Foot to the floor, you held in gear until the poor engine could go no further in revs or power. When it went into a state of frantic suspension of purpose, or floating, we shifted. In truth it was more like a convulsive gasp for life than anything as peaceful as floating. It was testimonial to the ruggedness of those big American engines that they held together; never turning intoshrapnel.  Of course under harder strain on a drag strip some did become shrapnel, thus creating the need for a wholly new part called a scatter shield.


It was during this time that I began living the life of a double agent. Starting in 1957 I surreptitiously subscribed to Road & Track Magazine. I dont know what made me do it because it was a terribly risky thing to do. I was driving a 57 Chevy that was a real tire smoker. I belonged to a car club devoted to American cars. But here I was, secretly reading Road & Track. I was becoming a closet Euromobilephile, lusting after European sports cars while pushing two tons of American iron down the road. I knew a salesman at a European car agency who let me drive used sports cars regularly. My friends, none the wiser, would have ridiculed me out of the car club had they known that I frequently drove those strange little foreigny cars. Repulsive to my buddies, the little cares were romantic and alluring to me. Their steel was almost art like in its form. Settled into the cockpit cocoon wrapped in rich leather, you looked out over a long narrow hood and felt the car transmit its spirit into your bones. The smell of gasoline, leather and oil were as much a visceral reality of these cars as the pressure in your gut as you slammed the beautiful little buggers around corners.


Through Road & Track magazine I became intimate friends were Juan Fangio, The Marquee de Portago, Mike Hawthorne, Peter Collins, Oliver Giendibien, Wolfgang Von Trip, Phil Hill and Ritchie Ginther, the Rodrigus brothers and, of course, Sterling Moss. Sterling and I had a particularly close bond, though I must confess he was unaware of it. These men and the names of the places where they raced were magical to me. Mille Miglia, Silverstone, Goodwood, the Nurnburg Ring, LeMans, Monsa, Spa, Carara PanAmerica jumped off the pages filling my mind with the sound and fury of the exploits of my new heroes.


One fall day in 1960 I was driving a MG, borrowed from my friends car dealership and, hard as it may be to believe, this MG developed a problem that caused it tocease running. From around a bend in the road I heard the heavy throated sound of what turned out to be a Jaguar XK120. Being a good sports car comrade, this Jag driver stopped to offer help. In no time he had the little MG running again, but his contribution to my future would turn out to be profound beyond the mere fixing of my borrowed car. This fellow demonstrated the nobility of character that I imagined all of my racing heroes to possess. Everything about him ignited my desire to belong to this exotic group who drove European sports cars. His name was Robert Von Edescudy. I was convinced that the Von part of his name somehow made him related to Wolfgang Von Tripp, the renowned race driver from Germany, and that somehow everyone who drove these cars became like a European gentleman of means and daring do. We exchanged names and numbers and went about our way. I was smitten.


About a month later I got a call from Robert Von Edescudy telling me that he had seen a particularly nice sports car for sale and, remembering our meeting, thought I would be interested. I went to see it and was immediately shaken to my core by its lusty appearance. Relegated to a dark corner of an American dealership garage, it sat low slung, dark maroon in color, on chrome wire wheels with knock offs. Its steel and aluminum panels curved seductively, femininely, drawing my eye over its curvaceous body. From nose to tail ran two wide bands of white paint seemingly stretching the car beyond its diminutive twelve-foot length. LeMans stripes, Robert Von Edescuty told me. Two rows of louvers ran the length of the hood and, of all the quaint things, therewas a leather strap across the hood. That looked cool, I thought. Looking in through the low opening where a window should be, an aroma as pleasing as the scent of a rose filled my nose. Leather! The marvelous smell of soft black rolled European leather. Robert Von Edescudy told me that he would buy this car in a minute if he could and that I should doit without question. It was a very special car, he told me. At the time I didnt really understand what made this car special, but I knew that I had to have it.


I have to have it, I told my parents that night at dinner. Why? you have a beautiful 57 Chevy that you supposedly love, retorted my dad. Where did this sports car thing come from all of a sudden?, my dad asked with a logic that was lost on this collegesophomore. Suddenly I was sorry that I had been so secretive about my growing sports car fanaticism. It did seem a little off the wall, trading a perfectly good American car fora funny little foreign car. As if through divine intervention, however, I convinced my parents that I should have this car. In short order I sold my go fast 57 Chev and the maroon Healey was mine. It was a 56 Austin Healey BN2-M that had a tonneau cover, a factory special order hardtop, special order chrome wire wheels, had just under 20,000 miles and as I was to find out later was a one off custom order 100M build in the last quarter of 56. The maroon color had been discontinued in 1955 and was only available on special order, as were chrome wires. I paid $1500.00 and drove it away. Today it mightbe worth 60 times that number.


Quickly I learned that the owning of a British sports car is a life changing experience.  The first challenge is simply acquiring the nomenclature. The thing covering theengine,


which is not an engine but a motor, is not a hood, but a bonnet. Exhaust ran through a silencer box rather than a muffler. The thing that covers you and keeps the rain off your head is not the top but, rather, the errant hood. The space in the back that we call a trunk, where you put your suitcase, isnt a trunk at all, but a boot. Up till then I thought that pioneer woman wore bonnets and military drill instructors put their boots in the dark places of a recruits anatomy, but the British changed all that. On inclement days, you not only put up your hood to keep out the weather, but also attached plastic side curtains instead of roll up windows. Mind you, the hood attaches to the windscreen rather the windshield. And, when it came time to replenish the fuel, which wasnt gasoline but petrol, you found the filler pipe hidden inside the boot. Of course also in the boot, where normal people carried their suitcase, it was necessary to carry enough tools to qualify you as a mobile mechanic. And,  these werent just your average run of the mill tools!


Clever, the British! Who else could come up with a dimensional system that was neither metric nor standard? I say, said some English noblemen, Whitworth would be a ducky name for a measuring system! Confound the Krauts you know. The theory was that the Germans tools wouldnt fit the Spitfires that plopped down on their soil after being shot out of the sky. Say what you want about the Italians, but nobody beats the Brits for making the simple complex and the complex unthinkable. So we have cars with nuts and bolts that require special tools-Whitworth tools. And, as any owner of an old British car knows, there is ample opportunity to become well acquainted with onesWhitworth tools.


I grew up in Minnesota. Minnesota can be a ferocious place to live; frightfully cold inthe winter and jungle hot and humid in the summer. It was not the environment, during the 1950s and 60s, in which one would expect to find British cars successfully motoring about the countryside. I doubt Donald Healey ever envisioned his cars surviving in such an alien environment. I can attest to the fact of it, however, because I spent three glorious years proving that it can be done. Ignorant to reality, oblivious to pain and suffering, and a youthful will to go against the grain pretty well sums up this exercise in masochism.


I drove my 100M from 1960 through 1963 in summer and winter. Roasted my ass off in the summer and froze my wheeny off in the winter. Chains on the rear wheels pulled me through a lot of snow. A head bolt heater, plugged into house power every night, increased the probability of churning that big four banger up to a start in the mornings. Parking on the street, while going to the University of Minnesota, I had to dash out between every class hour to start the car, run it for a few minutes and then hotfoot it off to the next class. On a winter day, without being able to either run it or plug in the head bolt heater the Healey had tolerance to the cold for a max of two hours before the engine was doomed it to frozen dormancy.


We had a new SCCA Chapter and sports car racing was just starting up. We knew about Watkins Glen and Riverside, on the two coasts, but there were no tracks anywhere near us. Weekend races and gymkhanas were held in shopping center parking lots and at the baseball stadium lot. In the winter we raced on lakes, wearing chains. What a kick that was; ripping down an ice straightaway, sliding through a turn that was 4 to 5 timeswider


than normal to accommodate the slide. Snow and ice went flying as the chains gouged sprays up like a boats rooster tail. Incidentally, as far as I am concerned we invented studded tires. It was very common for guys to stick flat headed roofing nails through their tires between the tire and the tube. The pressure of the tube against the broad head of the nail held them in place-sort of. Brakes were of no use so you had to learn to drive with gears and slides. A favorite thrill was to run on a long lake with smooth ice, speed up to 60 or 70 MPH, then flip the wheel and tap the brakes, sending the car spinning across the shear ice. Six, eight, maybe ten doughnuts could be made if the conditions were right. Sir Donald would have been delighted, I think, to see his cars up to such mischief.


While the main racing action was on the two coasts we had access to the first major track in the Midwest just 300 or so miles across the state of Wisconsin. And, what a magnificent tract it was; Road America! In Elkhart Lakes, Wisconsin, Road America ran 3 major races each summer; the June Sprints, a professional race in July and a national SCCA event in August. Driving through the Wisconsin farm towns with a group of European sports cars caused quite a commotion. Most rural people had never seen anything like these cars. I had become part of a group at the U of M of guys with sports cars that included MG TFs and TDs, an MGA 1600 roadster and a 1600 coupe, a Jag 120DHC, a 140DHC and a 140FHC, a Triumph TR 2 and a TR3, an Alfa roadster and a Veloce Sprint coupe, Porsche Speedster and a 356 coupe, a 57 Healey 100-6, a Healey 100 and my Healey 100M. The common element that linked most of these cars was that many of us ran on a popular tire at the time called a Goodyear Blue Streak.


Streaking across Wisconsin, juking for position the whole way, we would pull into these little towns, park in a line on Main Street and go into a saloon for a local beer. Virtually every town in Wisconsin back then had a brewery that produced that towns version of someones heritage brew of German beer. A dime a glass was the tariff of the time. A dollar would go a long way on altering ones perspective on life. Coming out of the barsit was not uncommon to find the population of the town turned out in the street ewing and awing over our cars, that were to them were as alien an object as a well pump was to us city folks. Wow, look at the long hood on that one, one of them might say. Can you imagine the size of the motor under there? Fangio, himself, would have never felt more proud climbing into his car, pulling on his driving gloves and pushing the starter button than I did in my Healey on those glorious Wisconsin summer days. Wed fire the cars up to the cheers of the crowd and motor out of town with pipes rasping, gears whining and adrenalin flowing. Miraculously, all of the wild rides to Elkhart Lakes over the years ended with nothing but grand memories. We never had a serious crash, we never hurt anyone along the way, none of us were ever hurt and none of us were ever arrested. I cant remember anybody even getting a speeding ticket, although the Lord knows that we should have garnered many of them.


What a time it was for us Midwestern bumpkins to be at the races. Carrol Shelby was there driving Old Yeller, wearing his farmer bib overalls. Briggs Cunningham with his awesome stable of cars and equipment was a dominant presence. A couple of young California kids, Phil Hill and Dan Gurney, showed up frequently. A strapping kid from TexasnamedJimHallintroducedsomecarsthat,  ofallunbelievablethings,     had


automatic transmissions. Chaparrals they were called and everyone knew that they would never make it with auto transmissions. Little did we know that they would go on to be hugely successful and begin a technology shift in racecars? But, beyond all else the thing that exploded the gasoline running in my veins was the Meister Browser team of Augie Pabst with his magnificent Scarabs. Oh, my God! They were beyond comprehension. The scale and scope of the Meister Browser racing team was beyond my imagination, yet there it was in front of my eyes. Every dream, every image I ever had about the splendor and grandeur of motor racing was captured in the throaty roar of the Scarabs and the overwhelming equipage that made up that team.


After three years of such fun I opted again for some nice American comfort and bought a new Corvair Spyder. One month later, having fallen asleep late one night, I ran it into a telephone pole in a wreck that would surely have killed me had I been in the Healey.


It will take a story longer than this one to tell the tales of my three years in the Healey.  For now let me just say that I drove it, raced it, made love in it and came to love it more than I even knew. I sold it for $900 dollars to a kid who was going to drive it to Alaska and I have felt deep guilt ever since. The car undoubtedly died on the Alcan Highway somewhere and returned to the earth from wince it came. Undoubtedly it lies corroded and crumbling into the dirt, grass has grown over it and moose and caribou terds have all but entombed it. From dust to dust.


For 30 or so years after selling the Healey I still had dreams about the sensations of being with that car. The fragrance of the leather upholstery, the ever present smell of gasoline and oil, the visual sensation that flowed as you looked out of the close fitting cockpit enclave over the long bonnet dropping down to meet the wind and the sound of the big 4 banger grumbling into life after pushing the start button were vivid in my reoccurring dreams. I knew that someday I would again have an Austin Healey. And now, almost forty years later, I have another 56 Austin Healey. Not an M model this time, but a rakish black over red 100-4 that was frame up restored in 1989. With not more than 1000 miles during a ten period, I found it in the proverbial garage of a guy who initially planned to put the car to great use, but for a variety of reasons never got around to it. Since seeing a 1997 copy of the Healey magazine featuring a cover picture of a black and red 100, I had fanaticized about owning such a car. I imagined that when and if I set out to find one I would be embarking on a national, maybe an international search. Then one day my son came home and said that his girlfriends dad had an old Healey in his garage. I calledhim. He said that he was not trying to sell the car, but that he might consider it. I made arrangements to see the car and with my heart beating, like a high school kid in back seat at a drive in with a new girl friend, I watched as this man uncovered a gleaming blackand red beauty. I could scarcely contain myself, but knew that I must if I had any hope of negotiating a deal that would not send me to the poor house. We played bluffing games with each other for a month before the terms settled in to our mutual satisfaction. Finally, I sent a flat bed truck to pick up my new old Healey and my heart has hardly stopped pounding since.


I could go on with details and tales of exploits for many more pages, but suffice to say for now that Austin Healeys have had a significant impact on my life. Maybe someday I will write more of my memories of actual events of those glorious days of daring do when I tried to approximate the rakish behavior of those European gentleman sports car racers who lived their lives with Steel, Leather and Gasoline.


RACE CARS by Tom O'Neill by Ben Maurice Brown

                                             RACE CARS


                                             Tom O’Neill


Race cars are specificallybuilt machines that combine innovation and invention, engineering, physics, advanced design,  aerodynamics, technology and mechanics; resulting in an automobile that can go fast, have endurance and reliability, handle with precision and predictability, have superior braking capability and do all of these things while providing maximum protection to the driver. As these developments become perfected and cost effective they move into the manufacturing process for the cars that you and I drive on a daily basis. Virtually all of the technical, performance, design and safety features that we generally take for granted in our cars have come from racing cars, through the trial and error of testing, racing and winning on the track. There is nothing extraneous or non purposeful on a race car. A race car is the definition of form following function.


There is a convergence of unique characteristics that make these cars so pleasing and compelling to look at. Even a person who knows little about cars cannot help but be drawn to and be curious about a race car. The very fact of form following function, of the aerodynamics that help produce speed, of the smooth fluid lines of the metal skin flowing in smooth, luxurious andin even a sensualmanner that results in an classic beauty that becomes art like.


We have with us today a collection of race cars that beautifully demonstrates the full range of the characteristics that make a race car. Starting with modification of normal street cars to make them go beyond their manufactured purpose, we have the likes of the blue Alfa Romeo Guilia Spider and the silver grey Porsche 356 Super 90. The uniqueness of the misty light green Allard bonds the toughness of a race car with the lines of a beautifully crafted street car…similarly, the very special light green 1949 Aston Martin DB2 built as a race car, yet to become the now famous street version DB series of Aston Martins.


At the opposite extreme are the almost menacing serious business look of the Alfa Typo 33, the Ferrari 512M and the Porsche 917. Their appearance leaves no doubt as to what these cars do for a living. They go fast, they go hard, and they demand the highest level of driving skill to fulfill their purpose. They live on the race track and are almost incapable of civil behavior on a normal road.


Finally, we come to three cars that cross all lines of design, function, art and imagination. The mighty 8 cylinder Alfa 8C exemplifies the art deco period of the 1930’s in which this car set the standard of the day. But, by most car people’s reckoning the epitome ofdesign, function and just plain beauty has never been done better than the fabulous two Ferraris; the spectacular yellow 500TRC and the crème de la crème red 250TR, number 9. Similar in looks, but powered quite differently, the TRC with a 190HP 4 cylinder engine with two sidedraft Webers and the TR250 with 12 cylinder 300HP output fueled by sixdowndraft Webers. The 250TR is readily identified by its distinctive “pontoon” front fenders. SeventeenTRCs were built in 1956 and were replaced by the 250TRs in1957. Only nineteen private owner cars and two factory team 250TRs were built in 1957 and ‘58. In 1958 Phil Hill andOliver Gendebien drove a 250TR like this one to victory at the 24 Hours of LeMans. This TR, here today, also raced in the 58 LeMans, until crashing out on the 72nd lap. See the additional story about David Love and his 250TR.


We are glad you joined us in celebration of these glorious cars of yesterday and the men who raced them then and still race them today.                                             



All Things British by Tom O'Neill by Ben Maurice Brown

                              ALL THINGS, BRITISH!

                                   Tom O'Neill

It is of interest to note that British cars have been the object of much critical comment
over the years, boisterous anecdotes, witty sarcasm and the blunt of a lot of humor 
aimed at  certain uniquenesses that can be quite quaint and equally not so quaint. 
To illustrate the latter one has only to recall the often used title, “The Prince of Darkness”, 
bestowed on the Lucas electrical systems and lights used on most British cars. 
Much maligned for their irregularity of performance, Lucas electronics have 
been the grist for British car humor for more than the 5 decades. 

Owning of a British sports car is a life changing experience. The first challenge 
is simply acquiring the nomenclature. Almost nothing is as it seems, or at least 
as it is understood relating to cars produced in most other countries. The thing 
covering the engine, which is not an engine but a motor, is not a hood, but a bonnet. 
The thing that covers you and keeps the rain off your head is not the top but, 
rather, the errant hood. The space in the back that most people call a trunk, 
where you put your suitcase, isn’t a trunk at all, but a boot where you put your valise
rather than your suitcase. On inclement days, you not only put up your hood to keep out 
the weather, but also attach plastic side curtains instead of just rolling up windows. 
Mind you, the hood attaches to the windscreen rather the windshield and, as everyone knows, 
the windscreen is attached to the scuttle. Exhaust runs through a silencer box rather 
than a muffler. And when it came time to replenish the fuel, which wasn’t gasoline 
but petrol, you often times find the filler pipe hidden inside the boot. Of course. 
also in the boot, where normal people carry their valise, it is necessary to carry 
enough tools to qualify you as a mobile mechanic. And, hese aren’t just your average 
run of the mill tools. That would be too simple. They are Whitworth tools!

Clever, the British! Who else could come up with a dimensional system that was 
neither metric nor standard? “I say”, said some English noblemen, “Whitworth 
would be a ducky name for a measuring system! Confound the Krauts you know.” 
The theory was that the German’s tools wouldn’t fit the Spitfires that plopped down
on their soil after being shot out of the sky during WWll. It’s possible that 
the Crescent Wrench was invented as a solution to needing the right tool to turn
a Whitworth system nut or bolt. Say what you want about the Italians, but nobody 
beats the Brits for making the simple complex and the complex unthinkable. 
So we have cars with nuts and bolts that require special tools-Whitworth tools. 
And, as any owner of an old British car knows, there is ample opportunity to 
become well acquainted with one’s Whitworth tools. 

So, the Tiburon Classic Car Show salutes all British cars. Frustrating to some, 
British cars bring joy and delight too many more whose fond memories of 
breaking parts, greasy hands, skinned knuckles, non-working lights, cold wet 
rides or just plain wonder at whether the thing will start are the stuff of folklore 
and legend. 

by Tom O’Neill, Director. Tiburon Classic Car Show


Do You Drive That Car by Tom O'Neill by Ben Maurice Brown


Tom O'Neill

Most of us who drive classic or exotic cars have been asked that question many times by
appreciative people looking at our cars. It is actually a more profound question than it
appears because it really cuts to the very core of who we are as the keepers and caretakers
of these cars.
The very nature of these cars that we call classic, or vintage, or exotic give credence to
this question and at the same time dispel the apparent logic of it. The dichotomy is
simple; do you actually risk something of this age or beauty or rarity and value by
exposing it to road dirt, possible collision damage or wear and tear or, do you put it away
behind wall and glass to be ogled from afar like a Rembrandt or Picasso? Do you treat
this car as the piece of purpose built machinery to be used as its manufacturer intended or
do you revere it like a beauty queen to be looked at but not touched? The answer to that
question is what, to borrow a popular expression from a different venue of thought, is
what separates the men from the boys and the girls from the women. The boy in us wants
to possess something because of what it brings to us. The man or the women in us give
ourselves to something because of what it is and what we can bring to it. What we bring
to our cars is respect for what they are, dedication to preserving their heritage and history
and a desire to share them with others. That all sounds very lofty, but to keep things in
prospective, when the answer is yes, we do drive our cars, we are acknowledging that at
the end of the day they are cars; four wheels, a motor and steering wheel. For those of us
on this drive the answer to the question is apparent! We drive our cars.
To broaden this understanding a bit, it is helpful to look at some definition. To garner a
label like classic or exotic, the car is most likely old, rare or expensive. It might be just
one of those things or it could be all three. It really doesn’t matter, but whatever the
situation; the original premise for the car is the driving factor. (Pardon the pun.) One of
the prime factors in the definition comes from the concept of form following function. It
is most likely that the Bugatti brothers, Enzo Ferrari, Donald Healey, Dr. Porsche or
Henry Ford didn’t give a lick of concern about whether their cars would be pampered,
protected from harm or sequestered like a piece of art. (It is interesting to note, though,
that one Bugatti brother’s first name was Rembrandt.) They built them for function and
the thing that we now think of as beauty, the form, only exists because it enhanced the
function. They were built to drive, then and still to this day.
With that understood, anyone lucky enough to have such a car also recognizes that these
cars do have a rarity, a uniqueness or a value that does set them apart from an average car
and that they need to be taken care of in a special way. While the DMV registration says
that we own them, in realty we are more their caretakers for a period of time to preserve
them and their unique history for others to enjoy. Our car(s) existed before us and will
likely beyond our tenure as their owners.
That’s pretty heady stuff, but it doesn’t change the answer to, “Do you drive that car?”
You bet we do!
Article by:
Tom O’Neill - Director
Tiburon Classic Car Show

Biscotti & Cars Site Launch! by Ben Maurice Brown

Welcome to the Biscotti and Cars Website displaying images from

current, prior and future events. We welcome submission of selected

high quality jpeg images taken by attendees at Biscotti and Cars

events as well as other car events.  We also welcome constructive,

informative and humorous email comments from attendees about Biscotti

and Cars events. And, finally, we welcome email corrections of any errors

which attendees may detect in our website so that we keep our information

as accurate as possible. Please email your jpeg images, comments and

corrections to brownbenm@gmail. com.


The website photo gallery section will focus on  image quality,

rather than quantity, in displaying Biscotti and Cars events and other

car events. The website comments section will focus on sharing

interesting information and humor about many of the special cars

brought by attendees and Feature Car owners to Biscotti and Cars

events.  We look forward to seeing your images and comments.


And most important, just enjoy sitting back and looking at the images

on the Biscotti and Cars website. Come back and visit the website

often to see the periodic updates in images, comments and corrections.