There are a million stories in Q city. Even the name MAGCQUE (Magic Q) has a story, but it was a long road that led me to this place.
Growing up in northern Minnesota and North Dakota gave me an appreciation for ice. I remember practicing skids on the city streets in my 63 Ford Falcon. What a car, but there were many more. I was a natural.
After two years in Vietnam, and a stint on a Pacific island with the Peace Corps, I settled down with a wife, child, dog -- and a Porsche 924! Not necessarily in that order if you know what I mean.
The speed limit of 55 was meaningless. I remember that the CB (remember them?) would only warn me in one of 10, the FuzzBuster in four of 10, and I would visually see the Highway Patrol and slow down 5 of ten. I was always so proad of my alertness when I would see them before I had any other warning. In those days I never got a speeding ticket.
The 250 mile trip to Minneapolis was a three hour trip. When we moved to Germany courtesy the U.S.Army I took the Porsche with me. I worked for Dustoff Europe, as the only non-pilot officer. I remember one hot dog pilot getting a ride from Bremon to Stuttgart with me. When we arrived in Stuttgart he rolled out of the car and kissed the ground, praising that he had arrived safely. He had never seen such speed while on land -- and the top end on the sucker was only 118 mph!
Years later and living in Maryland I saw my first J. [to be continued . . .]
:ylsuper
Why the Q? 
