There are hundreds of automotive and motorsport focused websites. Damn good ones too. But here, I want to pursue the personal narrative that comes with a passion for automobiles. The what and the why. The unanswered question of what draws us to inanimate machines and earns them an illogical place in our hearts. A question often asked by outsiders but rarely capable of an answer from those of us with all the feels.

Weaving personal narratives around the axel of obscure and anomalous cars, the history of the automobile, and the people involved. All with a sarcastic wit in a tongue and cheek manner.

Do you like cars? Do you spend a substantial amount of time talking about cars, even if no one around you cares? Have you ever been asked, “What is it about cars?”

If you have then you are like me, and thousands of others. And you are not alone.

Life is full of firsts. First words. First steps. First kiss.  First… well you know. For interests and hobbies, that can be harder (no pun) to delineate. It may not be defined by a singular moment or instance but more a perfect storm. A swell of topics swirling around a whirlpool that leads straight to your prefrontal cortex. (According to Google AI that’s the portion of you brain that manages interests.)

With automobiles it could something as simple as going to a race or as complex as a long-term memory with an extreme emotional connection imprinted on your brain. Perhaps tied to an event or loved one that brings about warmth and feeling of comfort? For me, it was the first cars I fell in love with. The emotional attachment to those vehicles, and the situations surrounding them.

Notice I said cars… plural.

My first automotive adjacent memory, an extremely brief fleeting one at that, was sitting in the backseat of my family’s 1978 Olds Delta 88. Probably around the age of two or three. If I had to describe the memory in one word, I’d be blue. Mostly because it seemed to be early morning, it was cold, and my mom was scraping snow off the car. Any light coming in played off the baby blue vinyl interior that matched the exterior paint.  Possibly talking with my great aunt. Literally, it’s like a three to four second memory. The car itself didn’t imprint on me, just that I was in one. It’s also my earliest memory.

But the two cars that really kicked off my fascination with cars couldn’t BE more different. Both are linked to core childhood memories, one more steeped over time, the other a specific moment. Each equally important. That’s two votes for an imprinted memory featuring a car.

The 1976 Pontiac Grand Prix has entered the battle. It was long, a full size two door coupe with a vinyl top. The split waterfall grille wrapping over the edge of the front clip. It’s “gold” paint simmering in the Pennsylvania sun. I put gold in quotation marks because it was more of a burnt bronze or pre-greened copper. Cream vinyl wrapped the rear “windowlets” and roof and matched with the white wall tires wrapped around the mag wheels.

As a 4 year old the doors were longer than I was tall. The inconceivably saddle brown vinyl seats stretched for miles. Each dial and readout was round like a futuristic rocket ship or airplane. In my toddler eyes it was the ultimate vehicle. Unlike most anything else around me in the mid-to-late-1980s… mainly because most cars of the like either rusted out or were retired during the fuel shortage.

Big, shiny, loud, comfy. I relished every ride parked in the front seat. That’s right, it was the 80’s and regulations were light. No airbags to bust my teeth out. This was peak Americana excess floating in the sea of malaise era of econo-boxes.

My great Aunt had bought it new when she moved back to PA (that’s what people from Pennsylvania call Pennsylvania). Part of my big Italian family, she moved back to be closer to my grandmother and great uncles. And she bought the car either before or right after she learned to drive. My guess it went something like “I’ll take the gold one” but if my memory servers me correct she may have ordered the car. And oh, it wasn’t just any car, it was the limited-edition Pontiac Golden Anniversary Grand Prix. One of 4,807 produced.

My maternal grandmother, her sister, passed away a few months before I was born and my great Aunt stepped in to fill that role. I’m not arguing I was the favorite amongst my brothers and cousins… but I won’t refute that either. Looking back now, with the death of my grandmother being so recent and me being the first baby she really held, there was perhaps a serendipitous bond that could only be formed in that given timeframe and circumstance.

My great Aunt drove the SJ Grand Prix until the mid-1990s. Regularly maintained until it rusted through. I’m not sure who was more sad the day that car traded, her or I. The replacement? A baby blue K-Car of some sort that shed clear coat more often than a snake molts.

Getting picked up from pre-school. Going to Wendy’s or McDonald’s. Trips to Hershey Park. Sitting on the front bench, looking at the football field size dashboard. Deep dish dials and warning lights glowing. The imprint of those recollections and that car forever linked to core memories of joy, being a kid spending time with a grandparent.

So, what could be the polar opposite of that? A Volkswagen Beetle? Close, but no cigar. A 1978 Volkswagen Rabbit in Miami Blue.

The Rabbit was Volkswagen’s replacement for the Beetle, known throughout the world and later in the US as the Golf. We welcomed this car to our family around the time we moved to Pittsburgh, PA. It was my older brother’s daily and the complete antithesis of the land yachts I’d been accustomed.

While my recollection of the Grand Prix was more a collage than a singular photo, the Rabbit is directly tied to a singular memory. A snapshot in time. One that coalesced in not just a love for cars, but for film, art, writing. Everything.

I was sitting at the top of the steps-probably with a lego set-my mom in her room directly next to me ironing. I should have been at school but I was sick. With what? I can’t recall, but I wasn’t really that sick. As a parent now, I’d phrase it as inconveniently sick. The kind where you have to keep your kid home even when you know they’d be fine. My brother popped his head out of his room at the end of the hall, “Hey I’m going to see a movie, want me to take Matt?” The perk of having an older brother who can drive when you’re five.

It was late May or early June of 1989. The Movie? Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. A masterpiece I still-to this day-describe as the perfect movie. Layered, the right mix of action, comedy, heart, and thrill. Perfectly written. Perfectly paced. Perfectly cast. Just perfect.

Did this movie have a VW Rabbit in it? Well, no. But if you recall that was my brother’s car and his primary means of travel. Blasting down Route 8, windows down, music up as they say. I remember this feeling of freedom, that this invention… the car. This was important to me. As my brother rowed through the gears, the little Volkswagen zipped past the strip malls, up and down the hills and past the lush green trees of a western Pennsylvania in spring.

That’s my answer.

Core memories, collages and snapshots of the past. Something familiar and exciting that can warm your heart and bring the happiness of family. I drive Volkswagens to this day. My first car was a Pontiac. I went to school to major in film (before enlisting). I use words as a coping mechanism for grief and loss. Cars aren’t just an interest. They are the how and why-in many instances-I can communicate.

So why cars?

Why not?