It was the summer of 1967, the Summer of Love. Sergeant Pepper had just been released and I was walking down The Strand in London—the grooviest place on the planet, man. There were middle-aged tourists wearing bells because they were, you know, symbolic, and they carried bags with Carnaby Street labels. I wish I could have seen the looks they got the only time they wore the gear back home in Idaho.
As I approached Trafalgar Square, an unmarked van drove by towing a trailer and under a cover was the Chaparral 2F. The van was unmarked and the car was covered, but there was this high-mounted wing and the only cars in the world that had wings at the time were Chaparrals.
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