For as long as I remember, I have absolutely loved cars, trucks, and motorcycles. There seemingly was never a choice in the matter for me, and I have been living this fast drive with vehicles ever since I was a small boy. Over the years, I have met legions of people who have lived the vehicular passion all their days as well, and what I’ve found is that the presence of this trait does not discriminate when it comes to who it attaches itself to. Of course, there are external elements that may play a part in directing one’s passion, but even in those instances, gasoline was in the veins from the very start.
In my life, it began as my father telling me that I have always been “just like my Goddamn uncle,” who reportedly was as reckless and fearless as one can be when it came to driving anything with wheels. I’ve heard stories of his antics while behind the wheel— circumventing the speed governor on the local school bus while carrying loads of children (and moonshine), totaling the car my great-grandmother left for them, and countless others stories that raised my father’s blood pressure every time he recounted them with the utmost detail. Once, after coming back to a set of well-weathered tires and rotors on my behalf, it sent my father off into a tale of how his own father sped around Frogtown (a neighborhood in Columbia, SC) in a Jeep with such impunity that it was no longer operable in less than two weeks. Apparently, this passion trickled down to a cousin who had a string of Camaros and Mustangs (the last two of which were supercharged Fox body 5.0s when that was something to really raise an eyebrow) for as early as I could remember all the way until I was in college.
On my mother’s side of the family, it was a bit more obvious who my automotive ancestors were, for I had a bunch of uncles in Valdosta that I visited every summer who had a love affair with Mopar. Closer to my actual home, I had some cousins who were downright maniacal behind the wheel of anything they drove. Those cousins made me fear for my safety in everything from a Gremlin with a 318 in it, to a lowered Nissan Hardbody pickup. It was a great time to be alive, and things got even better once I got over my fear and began to understand what was happening underneath us as my cousins probed the limits of physics. Eventually, I learned to make sense of the chaos, and, before I knew it, I was making chaotic motions of my own behind the wheel. The discovery that exploring in a car can bring truly is wonderful, isn’t it?
Today, I’ve lived and been fortunate enough to be blessed with children of my own, and it has given me the chance to watch how the trait presents itself from the very beginning of one’s life. Although my three sons have certainly been bombarded with the external elements of the lifestyle even before the first one was actually born (I’d collected pairs of Hot Wheels ever since my wife informed me of his impending arrival), I’ve learned that there is still a chance that if a person doesn’t have the love for this stuff, they just don’t. True to form, my firstborn gently informed me one day that, while he likes cars, he’ll never LOVE them like I do. Though I was a little disappointed, I was more content that he felt the comfort to be honest with me about a topic that he was obviously concerned about addressing with his old man. Also, while he may not LOVE them the way I do, he sure was heartbroken the first time I brought home Hot Wheels for his brothers and did not include him in the gift-giving. Maybe there is hope for that dude, after all. Our middle boy is definitely an above average enthusiast, but as he grows, it appears that he is more motivated by the arts than he is screeching tires and revs on the verge of redlines. Still, he loves riding on two wheels, has uncanny balance, and is excellent at deciphering complex issues — so maybe he’ll be the one who races cars from a decidedly scientific perspective.
The one son who seems to have not had a choice in his crazed love for all things automotive is our youngest. At five years old, he developed a habit of saying “That wasn’t scary” from the backseat whenever any abnormal move was made while I was driving, as if he was daring me to scare him. He was also the first to actually ask for Hot Wheels every time we wandered into a store (the other two accepted when offered, but this guy got excited and started begging the way Chris Rock was begging for a rib on “I’m Gonna Git You Sucka.” If you haven’t seen it, look it up). What is most telling, however, is how he reacts when he sees something unexpected or exciting. The first time it happened, we were at an outdoor car show and the boy started yelling as if he was afraid of something—so much so that his mother and I started looking around for a huge pit bull that was preparing to attack. Instead, when we finally gathered ourselves and looked in the direction that he was frantically pointing, there sat a beautiful, new McLaren. As I looked it over, I recognized that this was probably the first time our guy had seen one of these in person, and I immediately (and laughingly) empathized with his excitement.
That child is now seven years old, and I’ve proceeded to bombard him (and his brothers) with as many tools to stroke his automotive fires as I can think of. Models, Legos, magazines, books, and whatever else I see that I think will entertain and educate are present in nearly every corner of their rooms, but thinking back, I believe it is something else entirely that drives the love of wheels most in our hearts. What it was for me when I was young, and what it seemingly is for our youngest, is riding bicycles. We ride almost every day, and there is always an unseen mission to cover distance as quickly as possible by that guy, and I am looking forward to the days when he actually challenges me with his desire to out-speed me on our bike rides. Until then, I’ll continue to share my love of the automobile with my boys, and do my best to support them in whatever passion it is they develop on their own. After all, when something is in one’s blood, it is damn near impossible to get rid of.
This one is dedicated to my firstborn, who gave me a genuine seal of approval when he read it. I love you, son.
