My Dad has a penchant for British cars. It's his thing. When I was growing up, Dad would spend hours in the garage, tinkering quietly. When he had achieved his mechanical goal for that day, he would call out and take me or one of my sisters for a ride, to "see how she goes". Dad would take me up Cambewarra mountain, the fresh air in my face, my white knuckles holding on to the door handle. "She loves the corners Al!" I would hear him say. That would be the only words for the whole trip - my dad and I are thinkers, we like to just be in the moment, enjoy our experiences. I would nod and smile back.
Over the years, his collection has grown. And his love for these cars has become an important part of his life. They are important to our family. To me. I can hear Dad coming from up the street. He has a huge grin on his face as he pulls in the driveway with the latest edition, a TR4. She is a little worse for wear, but I know what Dad has in mind. She is midnight blue with black leather interior like one he sold when I was 10. I get excited, my memories of when I was younger come flooding back. I want to jump in the passenger seat and see how she goes.