This year, I spent the holiday season in stunning Lake Tahoe. Because everybody knows, there’s nothing more exciting than your baby’s first snowfall:
I figure my East Coast roots make me smart enough to drive well in the white stuff & I’m now California enough to know I can still look awesome doing so. But nothing could prepare me for this:
The roads of Lake Tahoe are no freakin’ joke, kids. Guard rails are often optional. Add a little snow, ice, salt and sand and you’ve got great news for both my insurance broker and detail guy but terrible news for mama’s right foot. I mean, when was the last time I drove 35 anyway?
Pretty soon, 35 is feeling downright reckless and I quickly became “that” car. You know, the one that I flash my brights at in my own canyon, wishing to God they’d pull over to snap a selfie so I can zoom past? I was driving so slowly that I’m pretty sure I got smoked by this pink Jeep:
Soon I was panicking that someone was gonna spot me, slap a video on Twitter and revoke my Motorhead status. As the snow increased, I realized it wasn’t just me. I looked around and the sexy cars were dropping like flies. Even the new P85D was taken away sobbing:
I quickly face the undeniable truth– I am the weird one. I’m the one that lives in a place where wind is classified as weather, where rainfall causes chaos and where daily a Ferrari is an acceptable daily drive. The rest of the world, including Lake Tahoe, has one practical car–the one with the snow tires– and then if they’re lucky, one to uncover:
As soon as I accept that, the sweet cars were everywhere. There’s the Alpine classic:
The frostbitten Beetle:
And the chilly Barracuda:
After a few days, I accept my fate as the a-hole from LA in the fancy car– I start pulling over for the lifted 4×4, defer to the dented Durango and train my lead foot to mellow the hell out. And if all else fails, I’ll defer the following wise words spotted in a Tahoe driveway:
