The year was 1996. The Olympic Games had just concluded in Atlanta when I headed for the Peach State. I remember it almost like it was yesterday. I had just turned eighteen after our summer camp, making me an official adult. I was moving here to live with my sister and complete my college education. In Smyrna off of Cobb Parkway, she shared a rented apartment with a pair of sisters from Kenya. I would become acquainted with one sister as we spent some time together in the apartment at times when both our sisters were out to work. She would recount tales of her own adventures since she had moved to Atlanta and I would listen, hoping that I too, could start getting familiarized with the city. She used to teach me how to properly say Atlanta the Atlanta way. She would say, "A - lan-na," and I would repeat it to her. She was enrolled at a religious-based curriculum school and I was at an all women's school. She allowed me to read one of her books while on break. It was a book about how to win souls for Christ. I had read a good chunk of the book before the fall term began and I had to go register for college.
Here’s the truth; my car is starting to look its age.
When I first got her, my school age kids were a little jealous of my gleaming Chrysler 300 sittin’ on dubs (20” tires for those who don’t know) and shiny rims. The kids didn’t like it at all when I’d refer to her as Mama’s Baby.
In 1958, the first convention came to the Las Vegas Convention Center. It was a Mercedes Benz dealers' conference. It was also harbinger of things to come in the desert town, where conventions would prove to elevate what was then seen as a a mere gambling town.
The rapid return of cars to UK roads already busy with cyclists and pedestrians could create a number of safety and legal issues for motorists and other road users.
"The Hess Truck's here and it's better than everFor Christmas this year! The Hess Truck's here!"
I heard that jingle burst through the radio when I was a little kid back in the 90s. Next door, my neighbor had a tradition of giving his kids a Hess truck every holiday season.
There are so many great car movies out there that really make you feel like you're in the movie. From talking cars to racing films, there's a wide range of ideas writers and directors can play around with when it comes to cars. Even the thrill of cars racing in the movie is the greatest feeling when it keeps you at the edge of your seat.
Being young can be hard at times. We have curfews, homework and not enough time or freedom to do anything.
But when your driving examiner finally hands you your certificate and congratulates you on passing your driving test, you feel like you’ve been given the keys to the world and beyond!
Look, we all have that dream car. We all do, don't deny it. We all have seen or heard about that car we have to have. No matter what we do, we must have that car. I have had the same dream car since I was about 17. It's been a 1967 Chevy Chevelle SS, and it is the only car that I would ever own that would be a manual, because I am strictly an automatic driver—always have been, always will be. But this article isn't about the dream car, it is about our first car, which is just as poetic as that dream car that we all hope to get. I look back, and while my first car was a piece of shit, it was mine. I bought it with my own money, I didn't have help with it, I didn't rely on others to buy it for me. I bought it. I could call it mine. It was my first bit of freedom when I was a kid; it was my whole world. I could go and do whatever I wanted. I had a way to leave the house and travel around, go to the movies, go to work, and not have to wait or, god, hope someone would want to take me. No, I had something that could do all of that at the snap of my fingers.
There's something to be said about a car that's so awesome, so attentio-grabbing, that it steals the show. When you see a car that ends up becoming permanently tied to a movie franchise, it's hard not to admire it in some way.
My first car was a brand new 2010 Subaru Forester X Premium. I loved everything about it: the cloth seats, the huge sunroof, the bright headlights, the killer sound system (after I added a small preamp unit, of course), the shiny black paint, the way it revved when I pressed the gas pedal just beyond that special point. It was a beaut, and it was my beaut.
Cars don't make cars, individuals don't make cars, factories don't make cars. I wonder if you're thinking, who the fuck makes the cars then? Hold on, you're moving too fast. You're at a German right now, and we need you at an American or even a Japanese.
Your car is a statement about yourself. It says who you are, how you will likely drive, and what kind of life you live. Have you ever wondered what your car says about you, or what people think about your car?