When I was little, I liked white convertibles. I don’t know why. My “uncle” (aka, Dad’s buddy) was a car salesman and always gave me a Barbie car for Christmas. I wouldn’t say that’s where my love of cars started, but I remember it being a part of my childhood. Today, I think convertibles are one of the worst types of car. If you have allergies, they’re no fun. If you live somewhere with lots of winter or rain, that’s no fun either. Forget the sunscreen? Oh boy. They’re also less safe than normal cars (although that has improved with new models of convertibles), and they also don’t drive as well and are out of balance compared to a normal car. (But again, this is improving with newer models). When I was about nine, my favorite car was a red 1969 Pontiac Firebird—hardtop. Don’t ask me how I got there or why I wanted it. I remember cutting the tiny picture out of Auto Trader. I cherished that little grainy photo and held on to it for many years. Then that love faded, too. Into the teenage years and about fifteen, I was really into the Chevy Corvette, specifically in black. Being a huge Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers fan, I had read in an article that Tom Petty had one in the past (probably the 80s) and so… that was instantly the coolest car ever. Slowly my interest in cars faded. Except I hated Mustangs. My mother left when I was ten and bought a newer one with the divorce money. The dash lighted up purple and everything about the inside was flimsy and cheap. I hated it. I’m still not a fan of Mustangs, but I have more appreciation for the very early models and for Carrol Shelby. Her dad loved Mustangs. He had two model cars on his fireplace and I would always clean them with water and Q-Tips. I took care of them and he saw this. He passed away when I was eight and my grandma gave them to me; she knew they meant something to me, especially because I loved him. He was a friendly and cool person. He did auto body work and loved to watch NASCAR races that he had on VHS. He would sit up until four in the morning watching old races, eating popcorn, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer. The lifestyle didn’t treat him well and he died of cancer when I was eight. On my father’s side, his grandpa was a mechanic. My dad’s mother worked at the Hudson dealership. One day, my grandpa decided he wanted to go see the new 1950 model Hudson (and meet the cute girl working the desk). The rest of that relationship lasted 66 years until my grandma (who was more like a mother to me than my own) passed away in 2016. She always wanted a red Mercedes-Benz convertible and she never got one. You could say cars were always in my life. My dad set up his own used car dealership when I was about nine. It was a dream of his that didn’t work out because of the economy… and the fact that he was way too honest to be a used car dealer. When I was fifteen, I wanted to be a musician. I wanted a hippie van and my dad bought a 1995 Dodge Grand Caravan. It was green and the paint was shoddy. It was a comfort to drive and he drove it around everywhere... But I never got to drive it with my license. It was the first car I ever drove using my learner’s permit. I really liked it; but one day, Dad asked me to practice driving in our cornfield. It was October and the crop was already harvested. He wanted me to drive a pick-up truck, but because the seat wouldn’t move forward, I couldn’t reach the pedals to drive it. (I’m five-foot-one and a quarter). With that in mind, he said I could just drive the van instead. I was driving around the cornfield rocking out to Blue Oyster Cult on the radio. I don’t remember if it was “Don’t Fear the Reaper” or “Burnin’ for You,” but either way—they’re both fitting. I turned the van around and saw a patch of fire in front of me. I thought the way out of the field was blocked by the flames, so I shut the van off to leave the field. Unthinking, I had shut the van off in gear. (A car will not turn on if it’s still in gear). After squinting and realizing I could drive out of the field. I tried to turn the van back on to drive out of the field. That’s when I saw the flames under my hood. I grabbed the keys and exited the car. I knew cars didn’t blow up like they do in the films. I wasn’t that naive. I did a quick sprint to a safe distance away, pulled out my phone, and called my Dad. I distinctly remember my words: “the field and the van are on fire. Call the fire department.” He called dispatch and I waited. I walked across the field to the neighbors. The neighbor waited with me. We sat on lawn chairs with a garden hose between us just in case the fire crept too close. It was raging a few hundred feet away in a circle around the van. The only thing I could think of was “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash. There’s nothing you can do in a situation like that. I was calm and did what I had to do to keep myself safe. It took six minutes for the fire department to arrive. In the end, twenty-five acres of cornfield were scorched and the van exploded seven times. Seven different fire departments were on our farm (between extra grass trucks and bringing extra water). There are several things that could have gone much worse. Firstly, I could have died or had been seriously injured; that’s clear. But if we had soybeans instead of corn harvested that year, our home and our neighbors’ would have burned down. Fire spreads quicker though soybeans. If the firemen weren’t incredibly brave, driving right out into the flames, it would have reached the trees or the field and burned down our barn or home. If it had reached the trees, the firemen would have had to let it burn until it reached the next street over where more people lived. The insurance company decided it was mechanical failure (and therefore not my fault). I have my intake manifold. It melted and recast itself on the ground. The melting point of aluminum is 1,221°F (660.3°C). It’s a slivery blob now and a nice conversation piece. I failed my driver’s written exam once and my in-car exam three times. Technically, the first failure wasn’t my fault because the brake lights had a sudden non-functioning malfunction. Whoops. The second time I failed maneuverability (I was in a ’94 GMC Safari. The same as a Chevy Astro van). Those big vans are hard to maneuver. I practiced for two days (a total of ten hours) in the car between the cones in my grandpa’s yard in the van and ended up failing a second time. We’ll chalk it up to nerves. My driving exam, however, was perfect. I went back in a little Chevy Prizm and went through the cones like a breeze. In the seven years since, I have never gotten a ticket or been in a collision. A couple years later, we sold the GMC Safari because gas prices were high and I took over my Dad’s Chevy Cobalt. As much as I dislike Chevys, it has been a good car mechanically, but it’s terribly uncomfortable (seats, not suspension), the interior is cheap and breaking off, the paint is peeling and fading to gray. I’m not a fan of it, but it gets me where I need to go. My automobile fascination is rather new, really. It was an accumulation of being in a car family and loving Harry Potter, Edgar Wright films, Doctor Who, a bunch of other amazing British television, and then finally Top Gear… that set it off. My first full episode of Top Gear was when Benedict Cumberbatch came on the show. (I’m not a fangirl; I just think he’s a great actor and happened to tune in). By the end of the episode, it was “Cuberbatwho?” I was awestruck. I had never seen something filmed and produced more beautifully than Top Gear. Nor had I ever seen something so beautiful as the segment for the McLaren 12C. I’m pretty sure I made some erotic noises… There were beautiful, unobtainable cars and three British blokes mucking about and making immature jokes. I was hooked. Thankfully, I had nearly thirteen years of the show to catch up on. It didn’t take me long. One day it hit me. As much as I loved Top Gear, there was no car that I really admired or claimed as my “dream car.” Everyone had one, didn’t they? A dream car? I didn’t. The Corvette and Pontiac had faded. My new dream car had to be perfect. It had to stand for everything that I admired in a company and a car. Then it hit me like a brick. Aston Martin. Specifically, the Aston Martin Vanquish. I liked James Bond as a kid (and as an adult) and it fit me perfectly. As a company, Aston Martin values refinement, soul, and artistry. They keep their legacy and craftsmanship alive through the generations. It seemed a perfect fit. All was well. I had a dream car to pin on my wall and an obsession strong enough to blog about. That’s all this woman needs. (But she really wants an Aston Martin.) These days, I don't know where I'm going, but I know that I will do my best to keep interesting automobiles at the heart of whatever I do.
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AuthorLiberty White Archives
November 2017
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