entrance of the house, I met up with Jay, David, ex-marketing director of McLaren, and Alain de Cadenet, who had ridden the Black Shadow.
Jay got the barbecue going on the back patio, in a manner visible to the Space Shuttle. Wine was opened, cuts of vacuum sealed Omaha beef selected, and we settled around the kitchen island of this voluminous, if rather architecturally questionable, modern Mediterranean villa.
The conversation reviewed the weekend's events. Its perspective ran from the appreciative, to the strongest wry. The catalogue from the auction, that Alain had just MC'ed, was examined. Cars of less than accurate provenance came under the microscope, and their owners' roasted. As dinner was eaten and wine rather temperately consumed, ribald stories were exchanged about those who shall remain nameless and blameless here. The laughter thundered in the expansive space, disguised as habitable rooms. It was about to become stronger.
"I've got but a thimble full of petrol in the Vincent," Alain announced.
"Just leave it here till morning, and roll it down the hill to the Chevron across from the Lodge," was the consensus.
"I've got to be back in LA by afternoon. That would be cutting it rather close. There must be a hose around this great estate somewhere," he said, getting up from the table and heading toward the garage.
Oh brother, was the now unspoken consensus.
Nothing of the watering variety was found in the garages, but one was located beyond the back door. Problem was, the hose looked to be about a quarter of a mile in length. It was observed that not even the most proficient fish-netted professional could bring fuel up through that. And cutting it, well, the expense of replacing it far exceeded the cost of a gallon or two of fuel. The search returned to
Chapter Nineteen: Historic Context, Vintage Present
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