“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

Søren Kierkegaard

(1813 – 1855)

 

 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been in love with old cars. So when my friend Fifi asked if I wanted to go for a ride in her 1960 Ford F100, I was halfway out the door before yelling “Yes!”

 

Old cars are hard to drive. No automatic steering or brakes. They make a lot of noise and rattle incessantly when they’re allowed to run free on the open road. They guzzle gas. They pollute the air. When an engine part is needed, it’s hard to come by and often expensive. And there’s no guarantee the necessary part will be found at all.

 

 

But I swear! There’s just something about an old car that gets me revved. Maybe it’s memories of Little Papa’s Pontiac, with fins. I loved that car, even though I only rode in it once or twice. Or maybe it’s the ’57  Chevy where I became, well, a woman. Then again, maybe it’s something completely different, like the comfort that comes from things older than ourselves. That comfort that says, “Life was here before me, and it will go on after.” Maybe.

 

No matter what the reason, my love-affair with old cars is as heated as it’s ever been. I hope it never fades. I hope I always do a double-take when I see suicide doors. I hope I am always in awe of honest-to-goodness chrome. And I hope I’m lucky enough to always have friends with beautiful, old trucks, just stopping by to see if I want to go for a ride…

 

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