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at near-cornering limits and the car would transfer its weight on the front and spin out like Dorothy Hammil on skates.
The Dino I owned had been to the body shop more than once. Each visit resulted in a slightly different color and variations in the type of paint. When I bought it, it needed more body work. The engine leaked like a sieve. There were porous castings, faulty gaskets and mis-machined parts.
Need a part? No problem, in six months you get the wrong part. Specifications are subject to change without notice.
Don’t put it in a parking lot. The bumpers are a joke. The car is so low people don’t see it. The body panels were so thin that they dented if you looked at them hard.
When I brought the car to Fauquier, “Aha!” said the Commissioner of Revenue, and my personal property tax equalled what I paid for the car.
Public response was interesting to say the least. The car drew cops like a magnet. “Thank you for not running, from me sir,” said a polite state trooper as he issued me a 64 mph in a 55 mph ticket, having ignored an 80 mph
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