Gear Heads R Us

Those who know me well, know that I have several dirty little secrets. One which I am willing to discuss publicly is this: I am a gear head. I refused to learn to drive until I was well into my teens, failed my driver's test the first time I took it, and didn't own a car until my senior year in college, but nevertheless, I am a gear head from the git-go.

I love, love, love Monster Garage. I remember clearly the first few sports cars I ever saw. My brother (who is seven years older than me) had a friend with a red Fiat Spider. Can't remember the friend's name, but I remember the car.

One of my earliest memories of my cousin Milton was a "date" that he took me on one summer's day in Newport. I loved (and still love) horses, and so he took me to an equestrian event. I don't remember the riding or jumping, but he picked me up in a red Ford Mustang convertible with white leather interior.

My father has a friend in Atlanta who is a sometime auto racer. Paul came to visit us once when I was maybe fourteen. He arrived at night in a white on white Shelby Cobra Mustang. There were chrome hood clips. Chrome wheels. White interior. A real Shelby Cobra, not a kit or a factory labeled edition.

I didn't know why, but I knew it got me hot. Hell, I might not even have been sure about the hot, but I know it did something to me.

I loved Big Daddy Roth and Ratfink. I wanted a woodie for my non-existant surf board. I stole a book from the public library: a how-to manual for chopping a VW bug into a dune buggy.

All of this is just a lead-in to tonight's big entertainment. My honey is taking me to the Auto Show. Vroom. Tomorrow I will, no doubt, have a new must-lust-after car. I guarantee, it'll be a stick, it'll be a convertible, and it'll be red.