We hadn’t gotten more than 20 miles from our Portland, Oregon, home. Trapped by rush-hour traffic, the big Healey’s temperature started to climb. The needle on the gauge quickly passed the 212-degree mark, and visions of warped heads and steaming radiators danced in my head.
“Just drive on the shoulder, around the traffic,” offered my copilot, Doug Hartman, who was looking forward to his first road trip in an English convertible. “What’s worse-a ticket or a toasted engine?”