A few years back I had a 1969 Camaro 350, 4 speed. Nothing fancy…It was a plane Jane as they used to say and I called her my 25 footer. From 25 feet away it looked perfect and as you got a bit closer you could see some imperfections here and there. It was a gorgeous car nonetheless.
Just about every week during the summer and early fall, I’d take her out for a drive with all the windows open as I listened to the unmistakable whining sound of the transmission as I shifted through the gears. The radio didn’t work, but that was ok…It would have only been a distraction. This fully functional work of art was my music. It was all about the car.
I’d always check the weather before I took a drive as I didn’t want my baby to get wet. If I saw the tiniest of dark clouds coming, I made a beeline home to my garage. And I always made it until one day I was a couple of miles from home and it started to rain. I freaked out as I watched what could just as well have been acid falling from the sky. Within only a few minutes the patient arrived at the emergency room where she received several rounds of de-moisturizing. In no time at all, she was back to her gorgeous self and smooth as glass. I couldn’t help but run my fingers over the fender…The feeling was almost sensual…
One year I mentioned to the ex I was going to a car show in Wildwood, NJ, about 160 miles away, with my brother and my cousin. This sounded all sorts of alarms in her brain because my car was so old and driving it so far. “What’s the problem? My cousin has a ’57 Corvette and my brother has a ’67 Corvette. Mine’s the newest!” It wasn’t very convincing, but convincing enough so off we went.