Men tear up, it happens. We shouldn't deny it. And we're not talking about when you drop a battery on your foot or your team fumbles the ball on the one-yard-line in the National Championship game. We're talking about that moment when you let your guard down and an emotion, whether dread or happiness or appreciation, becomes an overwhelming presence. You try your best but it takes you over. Good art can do that. This one is embarrassing but I personally liked the show Northern Exposure when I was in school and the final episode ran when I was in Junior High. As sad as the last episode was I managed to keep it together, manhood intact. It wasn't until years later in the geography lab at college when the closing song of that episode, "Our Town" by Iris Dement and John Prine (a sad song to begin with), started playing on a neighbor's computer. Then she started singing the song.
Maybe it was the exhaustion from trying to complete a project late into the night, but I started to lose it and I had no idea why. A few tears came before I even realized it and I had to quickly dry my face, which turned out to be more conspicuous than just sitting there with a wet face. She noticed. Eventually, I put two-and-two together after blaming eye strain.
We feel you. It's cool. Take a moment.
I'm getting all choked up reading this.
This assembly of steel, aluminum and rubber embodies what's lacking from our post-modern era.
Look at art on the car (disregarding the car itself is art). The logos are restrained and elegant. The color scheme is cleary chosen to please the eye, rather that assault it to get attention.
The mechanical bits are of a golden age of engineering. 4' by 6' drafting tables, Curta Mechanical Calculators and $5 pencils, all used by guys who could still light up a welding torch or swing a hammer.
As best we can tell, it was re-used over the years. None of this one-season-and-crush-it disposable racecar nonsense. It was collection of valuable functional parts, not to be a showpiece in some Mafioso's car barn.
Lastly, Larry Crockett died in (or because of) this car. He was probably racing in trousers, and open-face helmet and goggles.
The beautiful, tragic absence of compromise on this car did itself, it's peers and Larry in. None of them coming back, and all we can do is imagine what it would've sounded or smelled like to be trackside in '54.
I hope no one comes in my fncking cubicle for the next 5 minutes.