"The Jeep is America's true sports car" - Enzo Ferrari.
"Go fuck yourself"- The Chevrolet Corvette.
There is no proof that Ferrari ever said that- likely it was Luigi Chinetti, who ran Ferrari's North American racing program. It sounds like something he would say, and he did kinda look like Enzo. Ferrari would not have been quite so nakedly dismissive of American sports cars.
But it's a terrific quote, and, when I was younger, a properly irritating, burr under the saddle sort of thing.
Because Corvette.
The love of which I inherited from my dad.
It's not that I didn't admire Ferrari's tempramental beauty. Or the gorgeous and potent Jaguar XKE. Or the original Datsun 240Z, the winking Lamborghini Miura- and on and on.
But Corvette. That was my car, the only American sports car. Thunderbird. AMX? Camaro, Mustang? Uh. Are those rear passenger seats I see?
Sorry.
There have been good and bad years, but for generations, the US has only had one mass produced, big auto sports car.
And in my junior year of High School, my dad bought one. A powder blue 1977 Corvette.
Dad loved that car. We went for long rides around town, T Tops off, enjoying the sound of the engine. Occasionally taking to the interstate to blow a little carbon from the pipes.
I loved that car. Taking advantage of my dad's job travel and my mom's schedule to sneak it out for more energetic drives. I mean... it was just sitting there.
It also became the focal point for one of my most intense memories of my dad.
During the eighties, dad and his brother Gary were estranged. Gary didn't get along with my mother or brother. Gary didn't really get along with dad.
The problem was that Gary was immature, and had some Vietnam related PTSD.
Me? I got along just fine with Gary. He pulled the same shit on me as he did with them. But, from my perspective? He wasn't around that often, and he made for an interesting bug in my collection of human oddities. An insecure narcissist might be the label now. Then? Gary was just an asshole.
Over the years, this made me the family go between. If Gary called, the phone was handed to me, or I was instructed to call back. If Gary turned up, my dad and I were the ones that dealt with him.
When Gary showed up, warm spring morning, to try and thaw the ice, he managed to talk dad into letting him take the Corvette for a drive. He kept it for several hours. And it came back filthy and spattered with road tar.
Gary left. My dad stared at the car for a long time. He went into the garage, got two buckets of soapy water and a little hand basket of cleaning stuff. Together, in silence, we took care of our baby. Washing off the dirt, the tar. Hand drying it and rubbing on a couple coats of Turtle Wax. Cleaning the seats and dash and windows.
As the sky purpled into twilight, car back to it's usual gleaming self, we dumped out our water and put the chammy cloths and Armor All and the rest of it back.
Then stood and stared at the car for a while. Together.
I remember every second of that. The tension and anger on his face- which gradually eased as he worked. My growing rage as I worked along side. How DARE Gary. How DARE he treat dad's car, hell, MY car like this. Such casual, arrogant disrespect.
Kinda funny. Dad ended up calm, relaxed even. I was ready to beat his brother to death.
In neither case were our reactions really about the Corvette.
Dad was upset, yet again, with his brother's bullshit attitude. I was upset at his having made my dad suffer. And, standing side by side, looking at the now immaculate car, we understood all of that without comment.
He didn't thank me, put a fatherly arm around my shoulders. I knew, when he came out with two buckets of water, what was expected. And why. He was my dad. The Corvette was our car. And we both had to handle the disrespect.
Decades later, dad and Gary reconciled. Gary got help. Grew up a lot. Repaired his relationship with dad and with mom. Which, as both men neared their ends, gave me a warm feeling.
But I have never forgotten picking tar off the flanks of that powder blue Corvette. How it felt to have dad acknowledge our mutual connection to the thing.
Years later, I realized that dad had known I was sneaking the car out for private adventures. Taking it, bringing it back in one piece and cleaning it before putting it back to sleep in the garage. And I think that any initial reaction he might have had was tempered by the cleaning. I think that helped him understand that there were nights, when he was gone and I could not sleep, that I could feel the car sitting cold in the garage. That I could hear it calling to me, screaming at me. Get me out, get me out, lets go for a ride...
Which was exactly the call he could not resist when he saw it in the prior owner's driveway. Get me out, get me out, let's go for a ride.
We never spoke about that.
But through all of it... it was really about those few minutes together, washing a dirty car. Sharing an understanding.
Oh, dad. I do miss you.
