From the Bucket Seat

Back in the day, real men drove right-hand-drive Lotus Super 7s, the kind that’d scare the hell outta you making a left turn on a US highway. You’d smell ‘em a block away, that sweet, acrid burn of Castrol’s castor oil—none of this synthetic nonsense. Those cars were raw, unfiltered, like a shot of whiskey on a cold morning. I remember Laguna Seca in ‘67, watching Bruce McLaren and Denny Hulme duke it out for the Can-Am title. The roar of those big-block V8s echoed off the hills, and you could feel the ground shake as they tore through the Corkscrew. That was racing—pure, no-nonsense, no driver aids.

I’ll never forget the time a cop pulled me over in my ‘62 Sprite—right-hand-drive, of course. He struts up to the passenger side, looks at my buddy, and demands his license. “Officer,” I say, leaning over, “I’m the driver.” He blinks, confused, mutters something about the passenger “not moving his head enough.” That’s the kind of chaos you lived for back then. Today’s cars? They’re computers on wheels, telling you when to brake, when to turn. No thanks. I’d rather take my chances with a twitchy Super 7, praying the carb doesn’t flood while I’m dodging a semi.

Now, let’s talk money—cars and markets ain’t so different. Vintage iron like a ‘66 Shelby GT350 is fetching $400k at auction, up 20% from last year. It’s a better bet than most stocks right now, with tech wobbling and inflation biting. Oil prices are creeping up—$88 a barrel—so maybe it’s time to ditch the gas guzzler for something leaner. But don’t go electric yet; the grid’s a mess, and lithium prices are a rollercoaster. Stick to what you can feel, what you can smell. More next week—unless I’m stuck in the pits.