Without shelling out the price of a late model Lexus to completely rebuild it, my dream of charred marshmallows and newspaper rolls and Pete Townsend matches and
roaring fires seemed to be just that: an unrealizable vision, as abstract and distant as the fading memories of my own childhood.
It
seems that Roger's pants are on
fire — as soon as we're rolling, the rear of the Jag dips, there's a hollow, insistent
roar from its quartet of tailpipes and its chunky rump is gone.