What year is it?
It doesn't much matter, really. And I won't remember what you said ten minutes from now.
It's just that I had to connect. Let you know that I get it. So wish I weren't driving this POS Corolla.
This is how to roll. How I would roll if it weren't for all the stuff life makes you do. If I were really free to choose. Some day.
For now, I take the covers off the steelies on the Corolla. It's about all I can do. And the fart can on the exhaust.
Some day.
I can't tell you how much I connect with this little bit of prose, Mitch.
Grinding. Sleeping in my truck after the last call of the night, because starting time is only 3 hours away and I can't miss the shift. Holding my wife's hand as she delivers our son, knowing that I'll be taking both of them home in an hour or two because we can't afford a room in the hospital. Mowing my dad's lawn, because 10 bucks an hour doesn't pay for a wife and three kids.
Hustling. Taking every shift. Getting up 4 times a night to drive to a chemical plant to change vacuum pump oil. Getting 10 hours of sleep in an entire week. Working 36 hrs. straight. Borrowing money to buy a 8 year old sedan. Dragging a $50 car home, spending $500 on it, and abandoning it as a lost cause.
Getting subscriptions to car magazines as birthday and Christmas gifts. Looking at cars I couldn't dream of affording. Wondering how my kids were ever going to go to college, to reach their potential. Wondering how I was ever going to reach anything close to my potential.
Seeing an "older" guy at a gas station in his 'vette/911/Jag, and wondering how he got to that point-- asking myself what part of his soul he needed to sell to swing it.
... and then, having life change in a day. Stepping through a door into opportunity, grabbing the chance and running with it-- hard and fast. Working every bit as hard as before, but for 4x the money. Buying a modest toy, then a nicer one, then eventually not worrying about the money the toy cost at all.
Slowing. Coasting to some extent. Enjoying life (maybe for the first time, but probably not).
An 11 year old kid was riding his bike past my house Saturday. I was building some steps into the garage apartment, and the kid wheeled his bike in. He had not a shy bone in his body, and he was shooting questions rapid-fire. He started with the limo, then worked his way through all my stuff. I told him to browse the shop for as long as he wished. He asked about the set-up-- the benches, the tools, the lifts. He looked at the stuff I had on the walls. But mostly, he was just making conversation so he could get close to the Speedster-- to be pulled into it's orbit, to gaze longingly at every curve, every swath of leather, every mechanical bit.
I spent 20 minutes I didn't have, just talking to him like an adult. If the car hadn't been landlocked behind eleventy-billion tools and piles of lumber, I would have taken him for a ride. I invited him back "any time", for just such a thing.
That kid was me. That kid was me more than once in my life-- wondering how this grizzled old dude pulled this whole thing off, how he played his hand into perfection. I could see all of it in his eyes, in his wonderment that men could own such things.
I'll never forget where I've been, and I try to never take where I am for granted.
We're blessed, gentlemen. Make no mistake about it.