For a day that was devoid of stories of everyone's favorite kinky racing administrator things sure got weird. And we mean weird in that you wake up, look at the other person (or persons) and without saying a word you have a tacit understanding that what just happened will not ever be discussed sort of way. It started with Mecaphilia then transitioned to dragons in Scotland (nessies?) and ended with Minis in leather. We get it, cars are inanimate objects of our desire. That's what this site is about, but let's not take it too far.
When we asked you about your ideal road trip car we got a lot of great answers. But there was only one, from maxforrest32 that not only answered the question but also captured the sentiment of the day:
You first spot her when you are a young boy. Perhaps in first or second grade...but there is something about her that catches your eye. Even at a young age, you know she is not your type. You can't stop noticing her as you grow older...by middle school you've started to understand how the raw sexuality of a woman can override even the most logical male.
High school, and she has taken on a different aura. She is unapproachable, aloof, indifferent and above the rabble of other kids. She is still not your type...but you wonder, secretly, what it would be like...for just one date? Kiss? Tumble in the hay? You know it would be something to remember, you'd come away with some brusies on your heart and on your body, but damn, what a ride.
Graduation day comes, and you've still never taken the chance to speak to her. You leave for college, and you know that you will only catch a glimpse of her during holiday breaks, maybe out to dinner with the family. She still ignites something deep seated, something you can't explain. Damnit, you tell yourself, it could come to no good end. And yet...
Finally, you see her out at a bar. You take the plunge...and it is every bit as painful, exciting, enjoyable and memorable as you'd dreamt, all these years.
Thats how I view my ultimate road-trip car...my father's 1961 triple black Corvette. It sat in various garages over the years, a dusty hulk under tarps...I'm not a Chevy man, and especially not Corvettes...but there is something about that car that makes me want to ditch the hard top, throw a tent, duffle bag and tiny cooler in the trunk, put on some Ray Bans, and point that black, vile beauty west until I hit the Pacific.
It's a beautiful thought and one we can all relate to. Now put your Underdog costume back on and get the hell out of my apartment.