It was a Saturday morning in April. 6.30 A.m. I walked lazily through the main street of Fort Collins, CO. By this point, I had lived here for about six months. I arrived to be greeted by the cold and windy grasp of winter. But this April morning, it felt like a new town. Everything was warm and alive like there is electricity buzzing in the air. Even though, apart from a weathered homeless man pushing a sad-looking bicycle, I was alone on the street.
After a sobering and quiet walk, I arrived at my little red house by the tracks. I didn’t have my keys so I walk up to my roommate's window. I see my haggard and hungover reflection and grin. I gave three strong taps on the window with my middle finger. I peered through the window and made eye contact with Parker. He was asleep and appeared and looked rough. “Can you let me in?” I asked. He looked confused but quickly scrambled for the door. It had been a successful night of getting drunk and seeing local rock bands play in front of jeering, sweaty crowds of local fun lovers. I passed out at the residence of a new friend. Parker had apparently found his way home. I wanted to take a cold shower to wash the grime off, but I didn’t. I brushed my teeth, tossed on a fresh t-shirt, and slapped deodorant on my armpits. Good-to-go. This morning there was little time for hygiene. I had to meet a man about a car.
I found an ad on craigslist that was somewhat mysterious. It was a posting for two Saab 900 Turbo SPG’s. The Saab 900 is a legendary car. But the specific car in the ad belongs to a more prestigious and faster variety within the 900 class. The Special Performance Group. No badges on the back of an SPG. Just the great word TURBO mounted on the side of the hood. The ad had no photos and also very few words. I contacted the owner earlier that week and our morning Saturday appointment was arranged. As I understood, the car was drivable but had no battery. Parker agreed to help me go and retrieve a car.
I made a cup of very caffeinated tea. We pulled the battery out of Parker’s car and put it in the trunk of mine. Then we hit the road. The cars were located in a small town about 20 minutes north of Denver. As we pulled onto I-25 I immediately had to pull over and empty the contents of my stomach onto the shoulder as cars pass at nauseating speed. Heat radiated off the highway pavement and overwhelms my senses momentarily. I stood up and closed my eyes for a deep breath and open them to see the blue sky. I felt much better, as that tends to go. The car I was driving that morning was a 1994 Saab NG900 SE. No slouch might I say. 5000 rpm in second gear gets us to 60 mph on the shoulder. Spool up, find that lane, and shift. Double-clutch so fast you might miss it if you blink.
The drive was supposed to take an hour but the highway was pretty empty so we got there in forty-two minutes. I spotted the elusive SPG as we arrive at the address. It sat in the yard. Tall grasses cowered in the wheel wells of the car, unreachable by the lawnmower. It clearly had been sitting in the yard for some years. The paint was fading and a rust spot was creeping across the rear driver side fender. A baseball-sized Grateful Dead sticker was stuck proudly on the trunk. The tires were low and a grey-haired man was sitting in the driver seat with the door open and one leg out. This man’s name was Steve. He was an old-timer. A good old boy with an appreciation for the fast and mechanical. Clearly a carrier of the speedism virus. It was OK though, he was among like-minded people that hot April morning. Sweat saturated my no longer fresh t-shirt. A Saab enthusiast is a rare breed these days. He was old, but not that old. Mostly, Steve was a man from another era. He would often pause mid-sentence to try to catch and complete the thought before it left completely. Or to ask me what we were just talking about. He affirmed that he was quite a space cadet these days. Steve had two of the SPGs. The one I already described, and one that lived in a garage of his. He had several of those as well. One had a few weird and unique race cars in it — hidden under pale canvas.
We stuck the battery from Parker’s car in the SPG that sat in the yard and Steve fired it up. The motor sputtered for a moment and then rumbled to life.
“How’s she lookin back there?” Steve asked.
“A little blue” I responded, noting some burning oil puffing out the tailpipe. The smoke soon stopped and the old tired SPG sat there idling contently. I gave Steve his $500 and we sorted out the necessary paperwork. “I sure hope this thing makes it back to Fort Collins,” I said to Parker. Sure enough, it did without skipping a beat. Several years of slumber and this old dogged Swedish sled was back on the road chewing up miles and leaving behind nothing but the sweet exhaust notes of an aggressively turbocharged Saab four-banger. I caught my grin in the rearview mirror as the wind slapped my ears. The power windows even worked. Good-to-go.
