When I went to work in Danbury, Connecticut, I bought a Triumph sports car. It handled marvelously. I soon learned to take corners at high speed, drifting (sliding) and powering my way around curves and out of corners.
It was a 1958 model, originally painted light blue. I bought it from a lady who didn’t drive it much. Later on, I had it lacquered in metallic maroon, which failed in about a year. I then had it repainted in metallic brown.
One day, while I was buying gas, a young guy, whom I hadn’t seen before, jumped into the passenger’s seat.
“Come on, give me a ride!”
Rather high-handed, but I admired his brashness.
As we drove down a small country lane, the guy continually chattered about what a great car it was.
I spotted a sharp, right-angled turn around an open field. Looking across the field, I could see that no cars were coming.
“Here’s a chance to show you how it corners!”
I dropped the transmission down two gears and tromped on the accelerator. The car lunged for the corner, blasting forward toward an embankment and tall trees. At the corner I threw the steering wheel to the right, then to the left, while holding the accelerator to the floor. The car slid sideways, then the tires grabbed the road. Instantly we were past the corner, pointed down the road, speed hardly diminished.
For the rest of the trip back to the gas station the kid just shut up.