[targa911man]

Subtitle: The Nightmare Before Christmas

The bonechlling tale which follows is unfortunately completely true. It is told in the third person not in the vain way of sports stars but as a means of the writer distancing himself from the horrors and raw emotion of the too-recent experience.

Targa911man was happily cruising Route 3 just past Montross in his favorite 911, returning to Manassas after a wonderful weekend on the Northern Neck preparing for Christmas. Back in Heathsville, the stockings were all hung on the mantle with care and the presents were all snug under the tree, except for his new DAD seats which were too big too take. In spite of having a touch of the flu, Targa911man mused that he was indeed a lucky man, just like that man the Talking Heads were singing about, with a beautiful house (actually 2!), a beautiful wife, and of course a beautiful car.
Then, about 10 miles past Montross, the clutch cable snapped while the car was in 2nd. "This is not my beautiful car!" sang the Talking Heads, as Targa911man pondered the two prongs of his dilemma--stop and call the tow truck, or nurse it back to Manassas. The stretch of road was desolate and would be for another 20 miles, so he cruised at the top of 2nd while the dozen drivers behind him were losing the Christmas spirit, judging from the unusual single finger waves they gave him in the rare passing zones.
Then came the light at 301. Targal911man was encouraged as he approached the light, as it was red from some distance away. If he timed it right, he would approach the light just as it turned green. Sure enough, it turned green when he was a quarter mile away. He accelerated but, with the engine winding out at 6k rpm, the light turned yellow then red when he was 100 yards short of the intersection. Crossing traffic there moves at 55 mph, so running the light was not an option. He put it in neutral and stopped, the first in line. When the light turned green, with much complaining from the synchros he forced it into 1st, wound it out, and bypassed 2nd for neutral, then 3rd, again with some rather loud protest from the synchros. Targa911man relaxed, because he could now maintain a reasonable speed and there were no traffic lights for a great distance.
Then the blizzard came, and visibility was reduced to about 30 feet. Many people with automatic transmissions or working clutches pulled off the road, it was so bad. But Targa911man forged ahead, the road becoming slicker with every mile. The clutch problem was now a blessing in disguise, forcing a reduced speed.
Then the lights of Fredericksburg loomed ahead with growing menace. Not the city lights, the traffic lights. If he could negotiate 4 lights without stopping, he would make 95 and almost be home free. The first 3 he timed perfectly, accelerating through them, then the 4th turned red just as he approached it. On an uphill incline, of course. When the light turned green [Deleted--rated XXXX for extreme violence to transmission--not suitable for viewing by Porsche owners] then was able to go through neutral to 3rd, and made it on to 95. Traffic was moving only at a moderate speed due to the aforementioned ongoing blizzard, but Targa911man took a chance and got it into 4th with almost no grinding.
Then (of course) traffic came almost to a standstill. Targa911man discovered that 4th gear will pull all the way down to 1000 rpm, which he had never tried before for some reason.
He stayed in 4th all the way from Fredericksburg to the 234 exit, and then, an epiphany, the "Miracle on 234 (street)". Targa911man discovered by necessity that once the car slowed down to 5 mph, he could shift from neutral to 1st with no grinding. He only had to approach two of the many lights on 234 in this fashion, going from 1st though neutral to 3rd without too much difficulty. Between 95 and Manassas, 234 had patches of clear road interspersed with patches of black ice, so there were many wrecks at intresections and the bottoms of hills and on curves, but Targa911man made it to Manassas unscathed, in spite of the fact he was in a 911.
He timed the last couple of lights before home without stopping, popped it into 1st a block from home, used the remote on the garage door and coasted in off the driveway.
Nestled snug in his bed with a small nightcap (a beer glass full of Glenfiddich), Targa911man worried whether he would only need a clutch cable or, much worse, a new transmission, but after a while it all began to seem like a crazy dream.