The story began very sadly. My father died and I inherited his car - a loophole Zaporozhye with a black square number with a funny number 03-62 cop. And I was then a young driver and a student, lived in a community and had to drive this miracle from a distant town to Moscow. I was a purely nominal driver. Type on the rights handed over to a girlfriend in Shatur, where they taught very specifically - type and what to learn, sit down and ride on this ground outside to that garden. The experience and knowledge of the PDD was appropriate. And here I in July of the month loaded on the luggage bag of Zaporozhye a dermantin suitcase, skies and a torcher touched the Yaroslavl highway to Moscow. On the way, I suddenly picked up and pulled out the gear switch. I just took it and stayed in my hand. Glad I guessed I just stopped the drandulate with the ignition key. Half an hour of female reflection on the design and the lever is stuck in a hole and tied with a ribbon so that it does not fall to some piece inside. Then my rear brake cylinder breaks and I without brakes with a leaked steering wheel through Yaroslavl to some service for tractors. I also brake the ignition key. How I found myself alive, I only now remember trembling of horror. Maybe the brain was missing. A local tractorist filled the brakes and dumbly hit the nail in the cylinder, sealing the leak. Driving this way, maybe you’ll get there, said a good car mechanic. I ch - I went almost without brakes, with the knowledge of PDD on empty ground roads straight to Maskva. If you stop, you have to go. GAI blocked the track, everyone is standing - and I can't stop, I drive around the drivers behind the haishnikov standing and on my shoulder sludge sludge past the haishnikov heated I proudly eat on an empty road and proudly go out to the MKAD. Yes, I don’t just go out, but I block the road to a pathos cortex of black Volg and Chaek with motorcyclists at the head. They said they then carried some president from Zagorskaya Lavra to the Kremlin. Probably the appearance of a proud lonely Zaporozhye with a dermantin suitcase and skis on the roof in July and a young sad girl in a black mourning cloth and a dress behind the wheel made an indelible impression on the inhabitants of the court. Yes, so they followed me for five minutes slowly and without overtaking. The road was then very narrow and not always two-band. And only then, when the second strip opened, the cortex majestically overtook me without shaking the sticks. No one whispered or whispered!! And so I continued a lonely journey along the road cleaned for me. What do you do, there was virtually no rush.

Now it is hard to believe this, but everything described is pure truth to the last fifth.