Remember Cuxhaven, a/k/a the end of Germany? Well, Lieutenant Moore didn’t own the franchise for post-worthy tales emanating from that fair North Sea city. It was another Saturday, and my wife and I felt the beach calling. Given our location, Cuxhaven was our only way to answer. Yes, there was a beach – think Corona commercial, minus roughly fifty degrees. But our version indeed had sand, and Hacke Beck and Jever were readily available, so it was our go-to strand at least once per summer.
I’ve forgotten any of the topless tales (think George Castanza), but the drive back served up an unexpected brew. Right behind us on the Einfahrt to A-27 was another 205 GTI, and luckily it was also a 1.6 model. Had it been a 1.9, this posting would not exist, unless I were to carry on about how abundant armpit hair seemed to be one way for the North Sea fraueleins to keep warm.
This was not a race, but more of a Gallic fist-bump. It started at a steady 160 kph, but we seemed to ratchet up at 5 kph increments (slowly achieved) until we hit near-maximum velocity in the 193 kph range, where we remained, side-by-side, for a few minutes. Grinning foolishly while gripping the wheel prudently, my occasional glances at the IP soon revealed an oil temp that was creeping into Ted Cruz territory, that is, quite to the right.
My newfound friend either didn’t bother looking down, or he had more faith in his oil and/or aluminum block. Thus, he continued zipping along after I dropped back to a steady 140 or so, which allowed the oil temp to return to normal. Yes, I had experienced a temporary red mist, but memories of a prior French fog ruled the day. Even with the premature ending to the Gallic gallop, the chance to run flat-out, side-by-side, with our car’s twin was a unique thrill that we only experienced that one beachy day.