“Next year, Ferrari’s ass is mine!” Carroll Shelby
Our daily activities always seem to change with the years.
Young; school. Teen years; hanging out. Married; chauffeuring kids, fifties; empty nester activities, sixties; travel and visiting grandchildren, seventies; doctor appointments. If you’re lucky and reach your eighties and nineties, whatever you can physically handle. Anyone noticing the driving theme here?
The one constant in your daily activities has and always be, transportation. We move about daily from place to place doing, accomplishing and living.
There is however one little difference as all this movement is a constant in our lives.
Young zoom zoom. Older, OY!
At my age I‘ve noticed my body is now like an old car that spends most of its time in the repair shop.
Sure, there are more spare parts available now. New knees, hips, shoulders, hearts, kidneys, etc, etc. Being Bionic would seem to be the perfect way to keep this old clunker running at optimum speed. Yet for some reason, it doesn’t seem to do exactly what’s promised.
Hmm, this new knee is a little better for sure. The pain isn’t so bad now and I can almost do what I used to…and yet. Nope I can’t run a mile, I can’t hop over fences and Lord knows I can’t leap over tall buildings at a single bound.
Okay so I couldn’t do those things before my knee went bad, but still shouldn’t a brand-new part work like new and inspire me?
Shouldn’t my hip let me twist the night away and allow me to beat someone to the black cashmere sweater on the sale rack at Bloomie’s? Yet I’m not seein’ it.
What I am seeing is that every time I replace one part on my body another part becomes jealous and wants to get a new makeover too.
After my knee was done my hip started complaining.
“I’m not working so hard anymore. Let your new knee carry the burden. It’s new and state of the art, I’m old and tired, so screw you.” Nice talk from a hip I pampered for years.
But this isn’t about body shaming, it’s about body bitching.
I know as we age things break down a bit, but perhaps it’s because I’m from Detroit that I see things in terms of cars.
Years ago it wasn’t uncommon to see old cars broken down alongside the road. People had abandoned or simply given up fixing them over and over. No matter how much they tried to bring them back to life they never seemed to have the old get up and go. It simply got up and went. I get that.
So I became certain that fixing and repairing old cars wouldn’t achieve the desired result. Perhaps we should all just force that door open and accept that newer cars would drive past us as though we were standing still.
That is until I went home years ago and spent the day with my brother watching the Woodward Avenue Dream Cruise.
In case you aren’t from Detroit and have no idea what I’m talking about, I shall explain.
It happens one day a year in August when those who have spent oodles of money refurbishing classic cars parade them down Woodward Avenue in the Motor City. Over 40,000 cars show up from places as far away as Australia. They proudly display the original beauty of cars like a GTO or classic Corvette as they cruise the avenue while auto fans admire their handiwork.
I must admit it’s pretty impressive to see the way these old cars shine and perform like dogs at the Westminster Kennel show.
It’s as if they know it’s their day to show off for the masses and they do so proudly.
The two-tone cars, the muscle cars, the luxury, and not so much all seem to have the same glow about them.
Inside and out they sparkle like they were showroom new.
It’s not just the fact they look amazing; it’s the amount of work that obviously goes into the process. The love it took, but most of all the memories they provoke.
Because Detroiters seem to measure years in car stats, the conversation will turn to, “I remember when Chevrolet added the 409 V8 engine to the Impala Super Sport in 1961.” Or someone tell his friend “What a thrill it was when my father let me drive that Ford Fairlane two-tone blue and white on my first date with my wife.” Or, “Seriously was anything cooler than a Shelby AC Cobra?”
You might see that dreamy ‘56 pink T-Bird you never stopped wishing for. Or Ford savior Lee Iacocca’s original Mustang convertible you begged for when you got your license.
Or someone say, “Oh my goodness I learned to drive in that Chrysler with the push button controls.” Or find yourself tearing up as you realize your cousin who was murdered had that ultra-cool blue Chevelle.Motowners,
Cars aren’t just something to drive to a Detroiter. Motowners measure their life experiences in terms of makes and models. I imagine most people do the same from other cities, but it’s not the same. Cars are in the DNA of the Motor City. Even if you leave Motown the cars never leave you.
I went on a date with a man to see Ford Versus Ferrari. I was so engrossed and happy watching all the players I recognized from my youth, and of course I cried at the sad ending. Then I looked over and my date was sleeping. “You liked that movie?” He asked when he woke up. Needless to say, we parted ways.
Sure, to some cars are just metal and rubber, but to us they are the keeper of the memories. But as we age, they are much more.
They are a symbol of what we were and might become again. Youth, vitality, excitement.
Seeing an old Corvette sparkling like a showroom diamond restores one’s belief maybe some new parts and taking the time to fix ourselves up, we might look and feel like we just drove off the assembly line. Could zoom zoom still be in our future? I’m revving up my engine to give it a shot. Anyone know where I could find a pink ‘56 T-Bird?
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