My bedroom as a child was not very large. A twin bed. A great draftsman's desk my Mom found somewhere. A Peter Max poster. Some Packer paraphenalia. Piles of books. Ian Fleming, of course. Comics. Navy World War II stories. Detective yarns. And one picture of a car. Not just any car. My first car. I was certain of it. A Triumph Spitfire MkIV. Just like this one.
This car resonated with my James Bond honed sensibilities. Which became even more sharp during the long winters. I sent away for a British Leyland brochure and this red Spitfire was on the cover. It was love at first sight. I used to sit at my desk at night, scribbling little stories and staring at MY car. Thinking of the incredible people I would meet and the places I would go while driving it. Or the impact it would make upon the girls in attendance at an unknown future High School. I didn't know anyone that owned a red car. As far as I could tell, there wasn't a convertible in the entire state. The raw exotic power of the Spitfire was intoxicating. At least to me. Back in those dark, snowy nights. I used to imagine keeping a small, expensive, leather bag in the trunk containing just a few travel essentials. To facilitate immediate adventure when the urge struck. Or for immediate escape plans. To places like this...
No doubt just down the lane from a Chateau of some sort.
Alas, it has now been established without question that a large part of romance is not knowing everything there is to know. Like the fact that some pretty girls are really no fun at all. And the fact that some pretty cars do not run very long. Or very well. My Dad had a Jaguar that just would not start during the winter. Ever. But he kept it for a couple of winters just the same. Perhaps because of the burl walnut tables fitted into the back of the front seats. I never did get my Spitfire. I have never even seen one in person. But sometimes I will pull out that old brochure and it still makes me smile. And I get that same old romantic "drive off for the weekend and see where you end up" feeling.
For my birthday a couple of years ago, I told my wife I wanted a particular little Italian leather travel bag. When I unwrapped it, she said "whatever do you want THAT for"? "Why, for the trunk of my car of course.." was my reply.