My love affair with cars began at a very early age; ten to be exact. There was a little used car lot I passed on the way to the grocery to pick up whatever mom or dad needed. What made this used car lot remarkable was it carried only European sport cars.
Over one summer I had fallen for a black ’53 MG; a British racing car green with tan leather interior and top Austin Healy; a snazzy white TR3; a Jaguar; and of course others. Each time I got back home I couldn’t wait for dad to get home from work so I could go over all the details.
He on the other hand was a died in the wool lover of big heavy American made cars. He could find no reason for anyone to be wafting poetic over wheels, the slope of the body, the running board, the convertible top. He was as anti-sport car as they came. He would not even come look. The fact that our family of four could not even ride in it was of no concern to me. As long as one parent was driving and I was in the other seat, I believed I would be in heaven. Speaking of heaven, dad was sure those European cars were a death chamber on wheels. It was so true that they were low, a person’s head was higher than the windshield, and there were no roll bars or anything else remotely suggesting safety.
So I contented myself with looking and dreaming. I think if the car salesman had been smart he would have handed me a dust cloth and turned me loose on his cars. I would have been in heaven shining every inch of those beauties.
So enjoy my journey back into time when a sport car was insanely gorgeous, fast, and deathly.