Call me chicken

Normally, around this time I should be crossing the last frontier on my way back from Sweden in this piece of ultra rare junk. A 2 liter aircooled T3 doppelkabine. But only moments before taking the plane to Stockholm, I decided not to board. You call it copping out, I call it superstition. Result's the same.

It might have something to do with my 2 (two) near-death-experiences last year. Once on the German Autobahn, in what would turn out to be the worst blizzard in years, driving a 61 ragtop with no windscreenwipers. Hairy to say the least. And my even scarier slip'n-slide on the Svensk Higway, ending up arse-to-front on the second lane. As luck would have it, at least I didn't end up in the ravine on the right side of the road.
Or just maybe I'm just getting old? Passed Cape Thirty just this month, and maybe it's time for some homebased projects, like some of my DVF clubmembers. Nah, don't think so.