Fossil Futility

My latest beast is likely the best of all, a '71 Range Rover, grey market shipped from Europe.
My current daily driver is a lovely push button radio outfitted beauty, made the year Elvis died.

I love the old cars. The ones that were just coming off the line when I was still in vinyl underwear. It’s their vintage body lines, chromed bumpers, real wood trimmings and hobo scented interiors of yesteryear that woo me. Not the nondescript unibody, molded bumpers and plastic everything that it has now come down to. They were boats and yes, we cruised, we floated on endless tanks of petrol. Back when you could pop a clutch,  choke a carb or steer with just a pinky.

I piled my pals inside like loose bags of rice and we’d fly, sans all restraints–for fun–for as far as a pocket of milk money would take us.

Always along roads without signs–curves without rails–we explored as young vikings might, pulling in just to see what we could conquer along the way. Finding love without seat belts, one hand on the wheel and the other sprouting white knuckled sensations. We sped fearlessly onward … until one day we suddenly sat idle, wondering what kept us alive despite it all while flipping, flying, rolling and nearly dying simply because we wanted to see what bug spattered adventure would slam into us beyond the next curve.