For four years we drove together. Through dates, disasters, races and road trips. Twice across the country, once with a radiator so bad you had to get the car up to near 100 mph about three miles from an exit, then coast long enough to cool the engine before you pulled over.
We had near-fatal accidents. Once in New York I hit stop-and-go traffic in the fog. It was like driving into a parking lot at 80 mph. I swerved into the right lane when the first car appeared in front of me out of a wall of fog. Luckily the next lane was empty for my 200-foot brake lock.
More then once I'd spun her around 180 degrees simply pulling out of shopping center in the rain with a little too much on the gas, ending up facing the wrong way in traffic.
There were cruises at 120 mph on acid with five people during fall in New England. There was the music and the wind on a Tennessee blue mountain morning. There were the hundreds of hood-opens for guys, and top-downs for girls. I can still hear the sound of her at idle. A throaty, strong, sexy rumble, like a big mischievous cat purring and ready to pounce.