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Disclosure and Disclaimer The story below is based on actual events that took place during the Lemons Rally of January 31 to February 3, 2017. Loosely based, ok, very loosely based. This is not a documentary, or even a docudrama, it might be better described as a crocumentary. The opinions expressed in this story are not necessarily those of the 505turbo list. The opinions expressed in this story are not necessarily those of the Lemons Rally. The opinions expressed in this story are not necessarily those of the author. The events recounted and the opinions expressed in this story may not be suitable for all audiences. If you are a member of the ‘unsuitable audience,’ suitable entertainment can be found on PBS. Prologue (Draft): Ensconced in my recliner after the workday, laptop on lap, I performed my daily scans; CL for 'Vanagon', SearchTempest for 'Peugeot' and 'Citroen', 505turbo for everything, the Samba for 'TDI, Passat, Eurovan and Vanagon', recycle, back to 505turbo, then SearchTempest.....Huh? 'Lemons'....back to 505turbo. No Lemons for sale or wanted. What lemons? More forum scanning, and there towards the top of the preview pane I find it....something about Moscow to Paris Le Mons. Being quite familiar with PD, and having just binge watched this year's Dakar, my mind was already in that long distance rally mode. I was excited to hear that the Lion of Africa would be roaring from Moscow to Paris, perhaps even extending its claws in the snow and ice coating the bituminous surfaces between. I made a mental note to revisit the forum and check for progress reports. A few days later, again ensconced in my recliner, I returned to the forum, and horrors! Team Lion had lost all its team mates. The Lion would still roar, but now there was an invitation for replacement Lion-izers. Interesting, no, fascinating, enticing.......but no, I am a responsible, alimony paying, cautious engineer type. I do not engage in such irresponsible frivolity. A few hours later, there I was again ensconced in my recliner, like a moth to a flame, drawn back to that 'Le Mons' post. I put the laptop away and pushed all thoughts citric and de Monic out of my mind. Ah, good, 'Wheeler Dealers' are working their magic on an HY van. It had been a rolling garment store and later maybe a produce van in the south of France. Produce? Citrus? Oranges....and lemons? Non, non, non, pas pour moi. And then the moth was inexorably drawn into the flame, and it sent Arun a message asking to communicate via email or phone. He replied explaining that everything was set up, he had paid the entry fee, arranged for the hotel rooms, prepped his car, etc., etc., all I had to do was show up and ride the Lion. A day and a phone call later the Moth was crawling across the Expedia screen. Holy insecticide, batman, those big aluminium birds do not fly as efficiently or parsimoniously on petroleum as moths do on bug guts or bird scat. So the moth morphed into a weasel and sent Arun a weaseling out email. But then Arun responded with an email expanding or explaining the full extent of his generosity, that he had already paid the Lemons Rally entry fee, that he was going anyway, he was offering the same deal he offered his brother. He had made all the hotel reservations, paid the deposits, and with or without his brother he would be funding the hotel stays anyway. I could avail myself of the same generous deal he offered his brother. All I had to do was book my flight and buy my meals, he’d even fill up the tank on the 505. And thus the weasel was shamed back into his previous incarnation. The Expedia tabs were still open in my browser so booking both legs of my journey took but a few clicks of the mouse. I had intended to forward my itineraries to Arun that evening, while again ensconced in my recliner, but on my drive home, my phone rang. It was Arun, calling to ensure that I fully understood the full extent of his generosity and the resultant minimal impact on my ability to pay alimony that month. He said he had paid the entry fee, arranged for the hotel rooms, paid the deposits etc. He concluded with an ardent request that I reconsider my decision to weasel. I asked if my forwarding airline itineraries within the hour was sufficient evidence of adequate re-consideration, and proof of sufficient de-weaseling to warrant riding the Lion. Mais naturellement, but of course. Now came the biggest challenge so far, or since spraying WD-40 and applying a crowbar to the cover of my checkbook - getting my derrière out of bed at 3:30 am, and making the pre-dawn frigid hike from long term parking to the terminal. Contrary to popular belief, it does get bloody cold in this salad bowl part of sunny California, thousands of feet below but only tens of miles from California's snowy ski slopes. Allons-y! Onward ho! To the Peugeot. Lemons Rally Day 0 The 727 touched down in the deepening darkness of evening in Baltimore - as it taxied up to the terminal, I sent a text message to Arun, “Just landed.” Arun responded advising me that I would recognize his car by the yellow fog lights below the bumper, Oh, and the car is a Peugeot. With that knowledge I grabbed my carry-on bag and shuffled up the aisle and stepped into the walkway leading to the terminal. I strode the billion yards to the exit to ground transportation. I relayed to Arun the section of the passenger pick up zones I was in. I waited, and then I waited some more. The Baltimore airport cell phone area is apparently a fair distance from the arrivals terminal, which, from what I have been told about the size of states in that corner of the country, could be up to two states away. Suddenly the evening sun began to rise on the drab greyness of the airport terminal wall. As the late evening advanced into night, and the deep blue of the sky gave way to black, the sun rose further. And then, without fanfare, a yellow daylight was upon the terminal wall. I looked to the left, there I beheld the twin suns of Constellation Cibie 175. I blinked and hastily looked away, but it was too late. Seared upon my eyeballs was the solar flare of Constellation Cibie 175, but also as a ghostly halo floating across my eyeballs, I discerned the unmistakable outline of the angular three box Peugeot. Reflexively I stepped towards the halo. The earth fell away under my feet, suggesting that I had stepped off the sidewalk. The blaring of horns and the screeching of tires suggested that I should again seek refuge in the safety of the sidewalk, at least until eyesight returned. I blinked repeatedly, and the halo took three dimensional form. Traffic flow was now such that with functioning eyeballs I was able to thread my way through traffic and arrive at the front passenger door of the 505, making sure I kept my eyes averted from Constellation Cibie 175. I opened the rear door, swung my carry-on bag onto the back seat, shut the door and reached for the front door handle. Seconds later I was seated in the familiar comfort of a Peugeot leather seat, shaking hands with Arun. The adventure had begun! As we headed away from the terminal and out onto the highway we made our introductions, and of course, talked about our Peugeots and other cars. It was quite obvious that we were both from the Indian sub-continent, his first name, Arun had suggested that possibility to me. During the following days on the road we discovered that our ancestral hometowns were on opposite sides of the Palk Strait; Arun being a South Indian Tamil, and me, a North Sri Lankan Tamil. Neither of us ventured into our mother tongue, as decades of atrophication of a schoolboy stunted vocabulary does not make for easy conversation, especially a vocabulary devoid of translations of ‘camshaft’, ‘snow’, and ‘limits of adhesion.’ A thought did flash through my mind, renaming Team Lion to Team (Tamil) Tiger, but perish the thought, in this era of schoolyard arrests of the parents of ‘dreamers’, and denial of entry to permanent legal residents. Makes you proud to be an American, don’t it, the land of the free, home of depraved….. indifference. Along the way, spending many hours seated beside someone you’ve just met there is sometimes a progression that you go through. Curiosity, confusion, consternation, collusion, understanding and finally, hopefully, acceptance and friendship. I dread to think of the idiosyncrasies I subjected Arun to, but I doubt I even know what they are, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t be working on them with my life coach or unburdening myself on some psychiatrists couch. We’d be driving along, through the winding twisty bits, and Arun would be focused on the driving. The 505 would glide through the sweeping curves, never a squeal of complaint from the tyres, the brilliant Peugeot seats more than adequate to keep you firmly in place, no need to rely on the safety restraints, no need to reach for the door-handle or dashboard. Arun’s 505 was a little more reactive to minor irregularities, bumps and thumps in the road, not unpleasantly so, just more noticeably so, if you were paying attention. The larger scale undulations, the whoop-de-doos taken at speed, caused a startling noise to emanate from the front of the car. A rubbing grinding noise from the oversize un-studded Firestone winter tyres mounted on Nissan Nismo Ray 13 lb 6 lug custom modified wheels attached to 6 lug to 4 lug adapter systems mounted on modified Porsche rotors with custom spaced and drilled lugs. Each of the adaptations only stole numerous hours and several hundreds of dollars of fabrication, but the good news is that the additional weight of the all the wheel adapter paraphernalia only steals 0.000001 seconds from the 0.000002 seconds improvement in lap times. The rubbing noise comes from when the fender lip steals a few grams of tire rubber for its personal use. Despite the lowering springs there was no bottoming out, lust a little tyre on fender rubbing. The V6 sedan was steady, smooth and level, improperly so from my perspective. I only knew the wagons, a 504 D, two gas 505s, and now my daily driver 505 TD. These wagons made grocery store parking lot sleeping policemen look like they hadn’t had a donut or anything else to eat in a couple of years, and at railroad crossings, you only heard them, never felt them. But any curves taken with even the slightest enthusiasm, the Lion wagon responded in kind, enthusiastically wagging its tail, shuffling from rear paw to rear paw until the derriere’s enthusiasm ( exploded into exuberance and) had it trying to outdo the front end for leadership on the road. Then with a “Sit, good lion” involuntary release of the accelerator, the lion wagon would shake its rear end as if it was drying off after swimming across a river. In all probability the lion would end up looking back at the river it had just crossed. The shaken passengers would be stirred to unleash a wailing and a torrent of abuse at the driver. Not at the lion. There was no such shaking or jiggery-pokery from Arun’s 505. It just went about engorging itself on the miles, gobbling them up like baguettes liberally smeared with fromage fort and dipped in eau de impala, a liquid that might be better recognized in some locales as “ah Jew.” The PRV 2.8i was a revelation, with instant torque off the line well down the tachometer. And it pulled and pulled relentlessly until a click and a snick renewed the urgency of the forward urge. When cruising speed was attained, and fifth gear selected, the revs dropped and the restrained growl dropped to a murmured warble. At speeds somewhat north, mmmm, responsibly north? of the posted speed limits, the V6 505 was surely a gentleman’s express. Space and pace, with grace to indulge in another automotive plagiarism. In most ways Arun’s 505 reminded me of a 3 series BMW I once owned, similar performance and handling, except with more space and grace.