If I told you I had a Bugatti Veyron, a Porsche Carrera GT, and a Pagani Huayra, would you believe me? If I added in a Monte Carlo SS, a ’69 Ford Bronco, and a Mini-Cooper with a roll cage in it, would you think I was selling wolf-tickets? Well, I do have all of those cars, and as long as my sons let me have access to their garage, I can pull these cars (and several hundred others) out whenever I want to. While some may actually have the privilege of maintaining such robust collections, the only means I (currently) have of amassing a bunch of exotic and unique vehicles is through the scaled down world that Hot Wheels (and Matchbox) cars provide. Without shame, I love embracing the escapism that they provide whenever I see their unmistakable logos and the metal cars that their packaging contains.
I had my first taste of Hot Wheels one Christmas morning when I was three years old. My parents bought me a case that held 48 cars, and they filled them with 24 pairs of cars before putting them under the tree. When I awoke and saw all that stuff in the room, the story goes that I was momentarily hypnotized. There were cars and trucks everywhere in the room, and my young mind was apparently blown for the first time (though, it certainly wouldn’t be the last). Even today, some 40 years later, I recall taking in the vividness of the recreated cars, trucks, and even that van that everyone who has ever had a Hot Wheel seems to have had. Chrome wheels, blowers sticking out of the hood, side pipes, candy paint, and staggered wheels . . . . I knew once I held one in my hand that I had a monkey on my back that I’d probably never be able to shake. I kept that Christmas set for years, and I did my best to add to it every time I was in any store that sold my beloved models.
As time passed, my play-with-them-everyday interest began to wane, though they still maintained a solid spot in my heart of toys. Transformers, multiple versions of Voltron, and Tamiya R/C cars joined my 1/64 scale heartbeats for some time, but they never fully replaced my first cars. My Hot Wheels would stay in their resting places for longer and longer periods, but there was never a time at which I could not name and identify each one in my collection. Then, without warning, it happened . . . .
I came home one day at the tender age of 13 and, without warning, my mother had given almost all of my Hot Wheels (and Matchbox cars) away. There was no consideration to the amount of time I’d spent with this one or that one, nor was any thought put into the level of detail that was amassed in my group of cars over time. They were discarded as trash would have been, and once they were gone, it was made clear that they were gone. I was completely devastated, and in hindsight, I think the moment may have scarred me much deeper than I’d realized. Somehow, a black Camaro Hot Wheel and a big-rig tow truck Matchbox survived the purge, and those two pieces instantly became symbols of my childhood that could be held in the palm of a child’s hand each and every time one visited my bedroom in my parents’ house for years to come.
Time and feigned maturity helped conceal the wound of losing my first cars the way I did, and I was able to maintain a level of sanity by playing with real cars and entertaining the opposite sex throughout the rest of my teens and into my twenties. It wasn’t until My Beautiful Wife (that’s how I refer to her, but it is only because it’s true) announced that she was pregnant that I revisited the existence of Hot Wheels. It was during this period that I began to buy two of each model—maintaining the notion that I’d keep one for my yet-to-be born son, and also save an identical model for when he reached age 21. This lasted about three years—until my lovely mother sternly reminded me that it was a waste of money to purchase something with the sole intention of keeping it wrapped in its original packaging for two or more decades. Since then, two more sons were born, and I trimmed my buying habits to only obtain one per child, per occasion, per store, per . . . . You get the idea. Still, “we” have amassed over 800 cars, trucks, motorcycles, go-karts, boats, airplanes, helicopters in the time that I have been a parent. In retrospect, there is no doubt in my mind that this pattern of behavior stems from the Band-Aided trauma that I’d buried deep inside all those years ago. I’m fully embracing the addiction this time around, and even though I don’t get on the floor and play with them the way I did that Christmas morning back in the day, I still have a passion for seeing and holding these miniature vehicles in the palm of my hand. What’s even better than that is sharing this love of mine with my three sons, who were literally born into the world of Hot Wheels!
P.S. – The Peterbilt tow truck in the images is one of only two vehicles to survive “the purge” described above. I gave it to my oldest son 10 years ago, while we were visiting my parents’ house. As far as I am concerned, it is a family heirloom because I got it in 1984, and it has towed hundreds of Hot Wheels during my (and my sons’) ownership.
