Oh man. I learned to drive in my parents' automatic mid-sixties Impala, so when when I bought my first car - a yellow 1969 Toyota Corolla - I wanted an automatic. The salesman said, "You know, this is just a two-speed automatic, and it doesn't perform very well. I really think you'd be happier with the stick shift." I told him I didn't know how to drive a stick shift and he said, "That's no problem, I'll teach you."
So we drove a few lurchy blocks around San Francisco - yes, San Francisco, the city of seven hills. Ah, if it were only seven!
After a while he said, "Doing great, drive me back to the dealership and you're on your own."
I knew my way home, but I couldn't remember where the hills were.
I could have used elevation data that day...
"...sweat beading upon his brow, he might recount that Damp Morning when he drove his Manual Transmission up the Impossible Grade, and was forced to stop, just below the top! In frantic pantomime, he’ll pull the emergency brake and disengage the clutch. Crane his neck to peer anxiously at the car sniffing his downhill bumper. Bulge his eyes. Gun the engine. Pop the clutch. Release the brakes. Lay down some rubber with a piercing squeal. Float his steed slowly onto the flat. Wave the smoke from his eyes. Pump his arms in brief celebration. And finally, grouse about that sadistic driving instructor who got him into the pickle in the first place. What a jerk!"
So we drove a few lurchy blocks around San Francisco - yes, San Francisco, the city of seven hills. Ah, if it were only seven!
After a while he said, "Doing great, drive me back to the dealership and you're on your own."
I knew my way home, but I couldn't remember where the hills were.
I could have used elevation data that day...
"...sweat beading upon his brow, he might recount that Damp Morning when he drove his Manual Transmission up the Impossible Grade, and was forced to stop, just below the top! In frantic pantomime, he’ll pull the emergency brake and disengage the clutch. Crane his neck to peer anxiously at the car sniffing his downhill bumper. Bulge his eyes. Gun the engine. Pop the clutch. Release the brakes. Lay down some rubber with a piercing squeal. Float his steed slowly onto the flat. Wave the smoke from his eyes. Pump his arms in brief celebration. And finally, grouse about that sadistic driving instructor who got him into the pickle in the first place. What a jerk!"
http://www.datapointed.net/2009/11/the-steeps-of-san-francis...