It’s Nor Cal spring. The season of sticky eyes and runny noses for which the perfect antidote is the smell of race gas and burnt rubber. This is the time for cars and other things that go vroom to come out and play. And the time for those in love with all the things that are the internal combustion engine to bask in the splendor of it.
This season can make me legitimately useless. Countless times at my desk yesterday I had to blurt out across the hall, “Do you guys hear the motorcycles?” They did, but somehow they didn’t feel a need to yell about it. Weird.
Hearing the low throaty sound of fuel, compression, and spark and the lope of an engine stirs something in my chest. There’s a beautiful duality that exists when you can pair a soothing engine rhythm with the knowledge that with a little flex of an ankle, raw power is unleashed. It’s downright intoxicating.
The first vehicle I remember loving was my Dad’s 1976 Chevy Cheyenne 4X4 pickup. It had those white steel wheels outlined with a single thin red pinstripe and a twinning blue stripe. The metal flakes in her medium gold poly coat glimmered and sucked me in. It went fast and made noise, and I was hooked. I remember being in it on some adventure. Dad goosed it. In my head we may as well have been in extreme peril on something like the Rubicon trail. But I was wee thing, so for all I know we may have actually been in a parking lot. Mom squealed. I squealed. And in that moment, any hope for me not loving loud and fast things in my life was gone.
Some of the other early car loves I had included my Grammy’s 1965 fast back Mustang. She didn’t drive, but she had that muscled beauty. I remember exactly what it looked like out the louvered window of that back seat. No need for driving-less Grammy to stop there though. One morning, my family was chilling in the Amen Lane house. A house with a big dining room window overlooking my dad’s beloved and manicured lawn. Out of nowhere, a 1979 Camaro drove up right on that lawn. This could have been a crime punishable by death, but a pardon was issued (at least out loud) for the infraction. It was my grandparents in their rootbeer brown Z28 fire-breather. In all her glory. She had stickers in all the right places to show off her lines. Hood scoop, seats that you more wore than sat in, all the things. My young brain knew she was close enough to the Firebird of Smokey and the Bandit that she was perfect. They had driven all night to bring her from Norwalk to Cottonwood to show her off. As they should. Eventually Grammy got her license, and once accidentally drove that car as far as Anderson, much to her fear.
Patina describes something that’s grown beautiful with age. It’s a fancy way to say that something’s lived an interesting life and is better off for it. New cars are cool, make no mistake. But those chariots of yore that have stories to tell are where it’s at. So many adventures happen in our cars. We live in a disposable world, so to see an old car that’s able to be flaunted means that car has been loved over and over again. People have taken steps to make sure her story continues. They’ve bridged the gaps so that the beauty that once paraded the chain-smoking beehive-wearing happy woman of the 60’s, can now become the majestic livingroom on wheels tourer of 2021. Each of these cars has so many stories to tell, and I wish I could know them all.
My poor car is broken. I’m dealing with that as best I can. And by “dealing” I mean I’m a seething cauldron of rage about it. But that’s okay. She’ll get back on track someday. In the meantime, I’ll continue to genuinely appreciate the work and care that others have put in to keeping their cars around to gather more tales.
Thank you car people for keeping histories alive and letting us appreciate your work. I’ll try not to drool on what I see, but I certainly will be still quietly coming to conclusions that y’all are rock stars for what you’ve done!
Thanks for reading!
(“Editor’s” note: I called my mom to confirm the year of the vehicles. She said that my Grammy didn’t have a Mustang. My dad got her corrected. It’s okay. She’s my mom. I love her and forgive her for not being a car nerd. Sheesh. 😊)
Bifocals and Barbells 