An Open Letter to Anyone who has said: “It’s Just A Car”

         If the title didn’t make it clear, I am one of those strange people who found their passion amongst steel and rubber.  The kind who speaks the letter and number language that has been confusing non-car folk since the early 1900’s. Growing up I was badgered with ads from automotive manufacturers selling the type of freedom that only a two seater can provide. Slogans like “zoom-zoom” and “soul of a sports car” were played on repeat like a jammed 8 track over and over again in my head. The walls of my room were plastered with blown up images of coupes and GT cars alike, weaving through backroads and racetracks.      

It wasn’t until I was much older that I truly found out what it could feel like to own something of the sorts myself. I’ve never been a flashy person, but for some reason the LeMans Sunset orange that coated the body panels of a silly little sports car captured me more than anything I have ever seen before. From the moment I laid eyes on that car, I knew I had to own it. The second I signed the paperwork to put it into my name I was positive I had made the right choice. It was a humble beginning down a long road paved with blood, sweat and mild financial ruin.           

Being in your early twenties with something you have always dreamed of owning is a strange feeling. It was being able to appreciate what was right in front of me, while simultaneously day dreaming of all the ways to make it a more perfect version of itself. It was finding your passion every morning on the way to work, and then again on the way home! (And maybe even lunch if there was time for a quick burn.) I have driven vehicles from all different manufacturers, of all different types. From mini vans to trucks, SUV’s to supercars. But there are no vehicles that have ever, and to be honest, probably will ever; captivate me in the way this one did.  It was the exhaust note ringing in my ears in times of silence, and the shift indicator screaming at me in times of chaos.          

I met my closest friends in that car. I moved my entire life twice in that car, packed full to the top of the hatch with sagged out suspension. I fell in love in that car. I had my heart broken in that car. It was there for every flat tire, blown radiator hose, popped power steering pump and seized brake calliper. It was there on the midnight road trips to the ocean for events, and the early morning detail sessions to prep for car shows. It provided me with an outlet for every emotion a person could experience, and it did so in a way that allowed true freedom at the exact same time.          

To anyone who has ever said to a car person that “it’s just a car.” You are sorely mistaken. It’s not the car. It was never the car. It was the outlet, the connection, the early mornings and late nights. The exploration, adventure, and excitement that comes with first time road trips. It’s the smell of burning tires and the sounds of 9000 RPM screaming for more. It’s something that cannot be understood if it is something you have never experienced. It was looking at the milky way; framed by the sunroof, on an open mountain highway with the high-beams lit. I was fortunate enough to wake up every morning and live my childhood day dreams for over 7 years. And that is what it was always about.   

Life has a funny way of getting in the way, and often times as we grow older our priorities have to change; and not always in the way we want them to.  That was the car the nearly killed me so many times, while also allowing me to feel truly alive.  Deep down I know passing it on to the next generation of gear head was the right thing to do. Bigger and better things are coming; and after all, it’s only a car, right?