!!! MX-5 Miata Of the Month !!!
November 2005Martin Pison
Congratulations to Martin Pison on the selection of his 1997 Miata as the MCP's Miata of the Month for November! |
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A MIATA JOURNEY
Joey and I had the opportunity to work together at the Office
of the President and it must have been during our first week in Malacañang back
in ’98 when I was first treated to a ride in his newly acquired Miata in british
racing green, or “BRG” as the Miataphiles would have it. While Joey was
possessed by his Miata, I never thought it could bring the same degree of
captivation in someone who didn’t own one. Joey adored his Miata as anybody
could tell, but I began to secretly covet it.
Again, I secretly coveted it. I remember having a Saturday
night ride with the topless Miata when Joey and I cruised around the city each
with a bottle of beer secretly tucked away from public view. We had obviously
graduated to high school, mixing a little drink with driving, but still being
responsible drivers, as reality would now and then assert its presence with
added strength of argument in a convertible where one felt virtually naked. At
around midnight, we were caught by a mass of the El Shaddai which caused a
massive traffic jam at the Luneta. Joey badly needed to go to the toilet that he
jumped out, tore away from the car and rushed for the nearest gas station where
he promptly relieved himself. It was good to be driving a Miata again, and I
looked forward to the occasional drive whenever Joey would allow it.
I therefore declared that the affair should end. I was tired
of secretly coveting another’s prized possession, even if Joey had started to
refer to his car as “our” Miata. I simply had to have one of my own. My father,
on the other hand, used to drive a Karmann Ghia and then later, a Capri, but had
to give them up for practical considerations when he started a family -- you
know the usual story -- so I knew I had to be responsible for restoring a little
bit of his younger days. What I took away, I had to give back somehow. We agreed
to look for a Miata. For almost half a decade my dad and I checked out several
ones for sale, and even came close to buying a red one (if it weren’t for the
expensive wheels that jacked up its price beyond our budget), but no purchase
was made for various reasons. In the meantime, Joey’s black Miata had evolved
into something else. Just take a look at it! (http://www.cardomain.com/ride/571385)
Then, in May 2005, a good deal finally came along. It was a ’97 stock Miata in
BRG, which happened to be my favorite color on that car, and it had a mileage of
just over 11,400 kilometers. I was told that when it was taken out of its
garage, cobwebs had firmly
I once rode horses. I liked the feeling of riding high and I
still love those beautiful creatures. But I had to sell them when I entered college, at which point I shifted to cycling, and then to mountaineering. It
seems to me that this latest acquisition is about to complete my evolutionary
regression back to the ground, which is just in the right direction for all
living things, one realizes. And I don’t feel a lesser cowboy in it. Jinba
Ittai, or “rider and horse as one,” I later learned, was the guiding
philosophy behind its design and engineering, which pleasantly rounds off the
edges in this experience. I will probably not allow myself to regress in any
other car.
Martin Pison
23August 2005
I never fully understood how my friend Joey could acquire such an impassioned
fascination for a car, let alone the diminutive Japanese Miata. He evidently had
a primal love for sports cars and was especially enamored with the Porsche 911,
but to be constantly taken by one he already possessed was strange. I had always
thought that desire was more powerful than contentment and that buying one would
shut him up. Have you ever had an overpowering desire for something, and then
after acquiring it you ask yourself, “now what?” But Miata this, Miata that he
went, playfully mimicking the sounds of revving engines and screeching tires
the way young kids do (in the manner I also did when Starsky and Hutch
was still on prime time television). I thought that I would never get to
understand this tomfoolery over an Asian car, which was certainly not a 911.
That is, until I sat in one. 
To save on gas, we car-pooled and
I always enjoyed the twice-a-week Miata ride. We would civilly make a crawling
approach to the sentry who would give us the cursory check and, just before his
salute was completed, make for the next gate at full throttle, on one occasion
almost running into an oncoming taxi whose driver had the most puzzled look on
his face. Never mind that we were public officials of considerable rank and many
would have noticed how we barreled down that quiet road on a fine morning,
disturbing the peace. Inside that car, we simply didn’t care: we were grade
school boys going down a steep hill on our trolleys. And coming out of corners,
we cheered ourselves just like the younglings we once were. It was a ride I
always looked forward to with childish anticipation (though at times disguised
with some dignity of quiet poise), and Joey had some sense of friendship, or
perhaps pity, in him to let me handle his Miata once in a while.
Until some idiotic bodyguard tried to park it and instead
crunched it against the Manila Cathedral head-on. The poor fellow may have
suffered a broken leg, but the Miata was a sadder total wreck. That was, to me,
the end of an affair. To Joey, however, it was rather just the beginning. Just
an hour or so after the mishap, he was on the phone sending word out that he was
looking for another one. Two days later, he checked out a low-mileage Miata,
liked what he saw, and thereupon issued a personal check to the owner for the
full amount. The car was silver this time, but had every bit of the character of
the old one. The owner, I would later learn, waxed sentimental and asked Joey to
remember to take care of the car. It was nothing short of parting with a loved
one. 
Until that idiot totaled it on an island in Quezon Avenue one night
barely five months after its purchase. This, to be sure, was to be the end. But
Joey’s fanaticism was incurable, and I couldn’t be happier for it. He
joked once that he wanted to make the Miata rare in Manila to make its ownership
more prestigious. I didn’t think he was kidding. A few weeks later he was
driving around in a sinister-looking black one -- his third. By that time, I had
already understood his fascination with this remarkable car. It was already a
shared one. We’d spend weekends and holidays sipping wine while
appreciating its beautiful, classic lines, stretching my attention span to
points beyond the achievable limits of a Playboy centerfold. In stillness,
it moved. And it seemed to look a little different depending on the position
of the viewer, or perhaps the amount of alcohol he ingested. When Joey installed
a supercharger, he let me take it out for a spin along nearby Mindanao Avenue,
an illegal drag racing Mecca, and the experience was a defining moment in my
driving life. I equated the sensation of acceleration and the hi-pitched sound
of the engine with a recently experienced Cessna Citation taking off. From nil
to one hundred under seven seconds, and without going past second gear! It was a
sick joke.
attached its tires to the ground, or so the story
goes. My father needed little convincing. I had been privately noting the look
on his face whenever Joey would drop by the house, and I knew that there was
enough sub-surface interest that needed only a little stirring. Perhaps the
ghost of his old Karmann still haunted him. Thus, just beyond my initial plea he
told me to shut up because he was already sold to the idea. Two days after
viewing it (the interior still smelled new!), my dad was driving it home with a
contented smile on his face. Seeing it for the first time in our garage was
comparable to the elation I felt when my dad surprised me on one Christmas
morning with a real horse, way back in sixth grade. It felt good to be a kid
again. Sitting in our garage, that car pleasured a father and son by, well, by
just sitting there and looking good. Joey, ever the fanatic, swore its
silhouette looked good even with the car cover on. But driving it was even
better. And the harder it’s driven, the better it gets! Yet, while the area
beyond the boundaries of its performance remain uncharted territory seemingly
inching away beyond reach, taunting and goading its driver silly, fun can still
be had within a Miata’s forgiving limits. It couldn’t have been put better by
Jay Leno when he said that with the Miata, power has never been an issue -- it’s
all about balance. Indeed, until the Miata, riding low had never given me a
high feeling.
On one morning in May 2005 with the day just breaking, my father and I joined the Miata Club run through the winding roads of Tanay. It
felt good to be with fools of the same bent. With the top down and taking the
switchbacks at high speed, we formed a binding link with our kindred in a
snaking troupe of Miatas that delighted both drivers and onlookers. The high
notes of the revving engine mixing with the rush of the chilly mountain air in
our faces were absolutely splendid it was almost dreamlike, and the car’s
performance -- at its eighth year -- remained impeccable. With wide grins on our
faces, we knew that a special relationship had just begun, and that the journey
would be quite an interesting one.
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