It all started years ago. It was before the internet, before cell phones, it was before Paul McCartney
formed a band and sang solo. Maybe it came from my Dad he liked cars, maybe it came from me, maybe it was a gift from God himself, who knows?
I was a pubescent boy when I first heard the gurgling exhaust note of a European car. The symphony of sound they created as they pulled away from a stoplight sent shivers down my spine. They all sound different but nothing sounds like them. I’m not sure how to describe it; they gurgle. Every time that sound reached my ears my head would snap from side to side, my eyes desperately scanning the streets around me, searching for what I hoped would be another never before seen artwork of steel & chrome. Some were swoopy and little; they all were different. They came from faraway places with exotic names. We called them “sports cars” because, while they could be used as transportation, they were built for fun.
When I was an early teenager the holy land was a place in the southern suburbs of Chicago. It was a small, off the beaten path, dark, and oddly built building that housed an independent repair shop owned by a man named Rick. He specialized in little foreign cars with high revving engines, long muscled brutes with big V12’s, and various other cars most of which were from “across the pond”. Rick’s Sunbeam Tiger usually sat, nose out, waiting for the call to go run. I remember a few things about his place like it was yesterday, which is pretty good considering how little I can remember from yesterday. 
I remember the smell of oil, fuel and exhaust. Why did it always smell a little better there than in a garage full of Chevys? My Dad would take an old Mercedes Benz to Rick’s place for service. Dad always got there late in the day often armed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. I think the bottle was Dad’s attempt to bribe Rick into lowering the bill. He and Rick would sit over in the corner drinking whiskey and talking about who knows what. I can still picture Rick’s dog, who was mostly a wild wolf from the mountains of Colorado mixed with some domestic canine. He would keep an eye on me as I wandered from car to car.
These were the days of wire wheels, carburetors, and wood steering wheels. Names like Jaguar, 
Triumph, Jensen, Alfa, Fiat, Ferrari, & Maserati were the names I whispered. Astons and Austins, Bug-eyes and Bugattis, Lolas and Lambos, Spitfires and Sunbeams; it was a grand time to like cars. There
were scantily clad chromed women adorning the radiators and handmade cloisonné badges proclaiming the manufacturer’s name. Interiors were covered in acres of leather all of it rolled or pleated. Carpets were Wilton wool. Oh the smell was pure heaven. Wooden dashboards had gauges inset. 
Shiny chromed bezels surrounded black or white faces with white or red needles. There were no “idiot lights”, no true enthusiast would ever trust a light. Oil pressure, oil temperature, water temp, amps, volts, rpm, fuel pressure, vacuum, and many other functions
were all monitored by these little dials. I can still remember the odd feeling of seeing cars where the hood and the fenders were one unit so the entire front end was rotated forward in order to get to the engine.
The obsession that started then has gone on now for years soon to be 
measured by the half century mark. Over the years many of these moving sculptures have spent time in my stewardship. Recently an attempt was made to name them all. The number is staggering, embarrassing, un-nerving, and humbling. Another acquisition or two and it will take three digits to count them all.
Some of them were as new as could be; others required a huge imagination to be considered anything other than scrap. Oh my, they were so much fun. A few were the definition of frustration. Some of them were true history. A couple were my friends. Some are missed to this day.
There was the GT6 that shed its wheel on Lake Shore Drive. The Reynard that tried to kill me. The Stag that was so eager to get to its new home it tried to pass me by as I was towing it to my garage. The Z in which I stole that first kiss. 
The 275 I drove in the funeral procession as I followed my friend who was killed in his E. The 6 in which I took her for her first ride in a convertible. Many a fond picture has been burned into my memory. The sunset in the mountains of Tennessee behind the wheel of an Italian V12. 
The sound of the exhaust echoing off of the walls of an old covered bridge in southern Indiana. Seeing the firelight glint off the chrome bumper at a campsite in the boundary water country. Ripping down a
mountain road, tires throwing gravel out over the valley, wondering just how close I was to the edge of the cliff wall. Watching the sun break the surface of the ocean as I laid my head in the crook of my arm resting it on the roof of another one of these beauties.
Oh yes, the memories are rich.
The beautiful blonde who took a chance on being my bride has seen them come and go. On more than 
one occasion she has rolled her eyes and gone back inside after I’ve sheepishly said, “It was lonely and followed me home. No kidding, honest.” Or steadfastly shouted, “No!” when I’ve just merely mentioned the name of some make or model she hasn’t heard of, only to later say something like “Where in God’s name are you going to put it?”
I’ve tried to share my passion with my family. My son learned to love boats and the water when we had boats and the car bug never bit him. My oldest grandson would rather spend the day conquering the world with some electronic contraption. My grand-daughter loves to go for rides, but the sickness, err, passion isn’t there.
My 2 year old grandson has been walking by some of my artworks on wheels. He runs his hands along their flannel covered sides and clearly says, “Car”. His name, Bradley, was the name of a sports car in
the late 60’s. So the other day I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride. As he nodded his head I told him to get his hat and meet me in the garage. My beautiful daughter and his grandmother weren’t quite sure of this plan but we were too far along to stop at that point. He was quiet as we buckled him in. He watched intently as the 35 year old engine roared to life and I reached out to tap the oil pressure gauge, a habit performed by all pilots and sports car owners. He didn’t move a muscle. Even grandma 
thought he was frozen with fear. As we backed out of the driveway he slowly waved his little hand “bye” and we were off. I tried talking to him as we drove around the block but he wouldn’t answer. His face was covered by his oversized baseball cap. When we got back to the house I asked him if he wanted to go again. A small nod of the head, a wave to grandma, and we were off. I thought he might be saying something so I leaned over to get closer to him. That’s when I heard him. I admit it, a tear came to my eye as he turned to me and said, “Vrrrrrr Vrrrrrrrrooooooommm”.
