It was spring 1968. My buddy, Lou, and I had spent the day in Santa Cruz, California doing those things young men do at the beach. When it was time to head home, we hopped in my convertible MG and made a break for it. It started to rain and with no top on the car we had to make a run for it. The decision was made to make like a rabbit in an attempt to keep the rain out of the cockpit by achieving and maintaining maximum allowable speeds and it worked very well. Thirty miles later and only semi soaked, high fives were appropriate. The following day at my high school, the tradition was to do laps in front of all those kids that had to walk to school (for lack of their own wheels) to induce envy. Sometimes our displays evoked that desired envy from others and sometimes it did not. It was my turn in line and I was behind one of the better cars, so I really stood out -- as in "tough to follow that act." He did his U-turn, but I could not follow. As I made the left hand turn, my right front wheel fell off. Believe me when I say, "I was red," but as I sat on the curb waiting for the tow truck, I pondered the possibility of this had happening the day before at 60 miles per hour. That would have been much worse than a little embarrassment.