They say that the happiest days of owning a boat are the day you buy it and then the day you sell the boat. I kind of felt the same way about the older convertible I purchased for myself. One of my previous husbands was very much interested in cars. He owned several when I met him and during our courtship then marriage, we owned 10 different cars. It was easy for me to speak his love language because I grew up with a dad who was always buying, selling, and working on cars. In fact, it was easier for me to speak anyone’s love language because I never thought to consider my own. 

You never know where you are going to come across an interesting car.

When I met Sam, (Names and small details have been changed because it feels like the right thing to do.) I had been divorced for a few years, my three children were still young, and I had yet to master a comfortable co-parenting relationship with the kids’ father. We met through mutual friends, and it was not love at first sight. He was attractive and nice enough. We eventually started to date in large part because my friends thought he was a perfect fit for me, and my dating history was spotty. 

Like my dad, Sam was involved in amateur racing. I never attended my dad’s races because his interest was in off-road rallies lasting days, often in Mexico or out of state. California, especially Southern California is the land of cars, freeways, and racetracks where enthusiasts gather regularly to spend the weekend, racing and repairing their prized possessions. First place winners received a plastic checkered flag. The thinking behind this was to keep things friendly. It worked most of the time.

I enjoyed my role as the supportive girlfriend during Sam’s race weekends. Making friends with other drivers and their pit crew in the garages, finding the local Starbucks to make a coffee run, and listening to stories of past wins and should have won, I loved the community. It all came to an abrupt end when Sam’s first win caused another driver to question the legitimacy of his set up. Did the car follow the specifications as required for its designated field? It was clear that the guy who had lost the race and questioned Sam’s engine was jealous. He wanted what Sam had-a great looking and performing car, the respect of other drivers for his meticulous design, and if I may be so bold, a girlfriend that enjoyed hanging out in hot, dusty garages.

To fill the void left by his departure from the racing scene, Sam joined the next best thing-Cars and Coffee groups. Similar vibe, right? You hang out in a parking lot or garage, drink coffee, and talk about the glory of cars owned and the ones that got away. Count me in. Again I made friends with the various groups of enthusiasts, rode shotgun on canyon drives, and hosted dinners for our new friends. 

Although there were a few female racers in the amateur clubs, I had never felt the itch myself to race. However, I did like the idea of owning a classic car. It would be a win-win-win. I would cement my place in the Cars and Coffee crowd, it would bring my husband and me closer, and magically, I would be transformed into this cool person who didn’t live by a schedule and worry about mundane things like work or the kids. 

Sam instantly became a different man when he was shopping for a car. He was lighthearted, full of energy, and positive. He was intoxicating to be around. We, I mean he, finally found the right car for me. The high continued as he investigated its history and negotiated the sale. Delivery was arranged. My special day arrived. I was the proud owner of an old car. 

The car came with me following our divorce. You can only buy and sell so many cars to keep a marriage alive. Real life finds a way in between the internet searches, the negotiations, and rush of those first canyon drives. I kept the car for a couple of years. It represented so much. It was the vehicle that would turn me into a more chill version of myself. It would be a wonderful treasure to pass on to one of my kids. It was my passport. Proof, I could travel with and speak the language of car enthusiasts everywhere. 

Similar to the grief of my divorce, I most deeply felt the loss of what might have been and tended to forget the reality of daily life. The reality of my old car is that it needed to be driven regularly to keep its engine in working order, it did not have good air conditioning, navigation, or enough room for a proper grocery run. The truth was I enjoyed the convenience of a larger car, cup holders, and temperature controlled seats. 

My new car needed service this week, and I visited the local shop where the old car had been seen. As I checked in, the guy helping me asked about the old car. “I sold it.”

“No, really. That is a hard car to find.” he replied with undisguised pain in his voice.

Not wanting to be insensitive, I shrugged my shoulders and simply stated my truth, “I didn’t drive it enough.”.