Yup, this right here is a feeling I get sometimes with my car. It’s a little brash, a little unconventional and temperamental at times when you’re trying your best to not attract any attention.
Pulling out of my parking space at Kohl’s, my Firebird making all sorts of cacophony out of the free flowing exhaust, and a mother and daughter are walking my direction. The little girl gets an animated look of excitement on her face, and while jumping up and down exclaims, “LOOK Mommy a RACECAR!”
I laugh, but with a look of disgust on her face, the mother holds her daughter tight as if I had suddenly violated her sense of what is right in the world.
In an era of throwaway cars, quiet idles (or none at all) and subprime car loans, I happily own a car that has been with me for almost half my life. I’ve caressed it, cursed it, beat the shit out of it, and I’ve coddled it. Things break and I replace it with something better.
It’s been an on again, off again relationship with my Firebird, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
