From an early age, the love for all things powered by horsepower pumped through my veins. I was the baby in stroller at the drags, the toddler at the car shows and the young girl with pigtails on a Saturday night surrounded by muscle cars at a local hang out. I could point out each car giving specific details and tell you that in my own personal opinion, nothing sounded quite like a 5.0 Mustang. For the record, the sound of a v8 Mustang with a Flow Master exhaust still makes me stop and listen until it’s out of range.
I admit to being overwhelmed with facts and what sometimes seemed trivial information as to how much horsepower a certain car produced or what a zero-to-sixty time was but somehow those facts were burned into my memory. Now those random facts flow in the most startling conversations I have with the male population to just to make them walk away scratching their heads.
Often referred to as the son my father never had, I can proudly say that when the hood is open I know exactly what everything is and what purpose it serves. I’ve changed my own oil, fixed my radiator, replaced hoses, I even helped put a center stand on a Honda CBX( my mother loves to refer to it as giving birth to a double breasted Yamaha), replaced sensors, and I’m sure other random maintenance that most people pay for. I like knowing that I can do it. Doesn’t mean I don’t pay someone to do it for me now though.
I am not limited to cars. I love big trucks with souped up Duramax Diesels, Semi’s with ridiculous Detroit Diesels, motorcycles, airplanes “" if it can get me to where I am going then I am pretty sure I know enough about it.
It’s an appreciation and I owe this to my Dad who delightfully instilled this fascination with all things performance and of course the inability own to a car for more than two years.
A 1970 Pontiac GTO Judge and a 1971 Plymouth Barracuda are the favorite muscle cars of the Diva of Driving.