You pass an old race car lying in a ditch. Lonely and restless it’s soulful headlights looking back at you. You notice the grill, and remember that face from an old Chilton’s Repair Book circa, the 1960s.
Like a mugshot in a police lineup, eyes from Pontiacs Oldsmobiles. Chevys and Fords look back at you. Like a class picture maybe or a Racer’s Reunion. with tailpipes eager to sound without mufflers.
Recollections of pre-racing days, girls with nice tail-fins and built for speed but never really loose. You sit at a Drive-thru sipping Root-beer with your first love. And when you leave, your curtain call is a couple of quick throaty revs. Kisses to the past as the roar of a big V-8 leaves no doubt. Killroy was really here.
Past the old filling station where you hung out and your car dined on old leaded-gas and the cost of the brew made cruising a snap. You saw old friends with new names and the pumps now self-service. No more Mr Clean with a squeegee and the question, regular or unleaded?
Self-service had arrived. What was once a fairly limited choice of refreshments usually dispensed by a rounded soda machine pouring out Pop in a cup or a can with a detachable lid. But those glass bottles were the best. Free of Poisonous PVCs and the fresh taste of chilled Coke bit at your throat. Now only plastic bottles and Big Gulps full of air. Some servicer!
A time when Kleenex were tissues and Scott came along to break up the dance. But back to the old race. You see, the old couple was sizing you up too. It was not a matter of was the car good enough but were the passenger or grateful driver allowed to enter. That was the issue!
That old car had reckonings as well, victory laps with a checkered flag and a proud chariot rider. You were pretty much in constant contact with your wheels and the term sled was more like Low-Riders and we do not allow that kind of talk around here.
You were proud to have Tom or Rick, Mike or James painted on the driver’s side, a kind of spiritual thing like a 2 carat engagement ring. You were in love and were lovingly paraded You rode piggy back on either a flat bed of some kind or had a luxury suite called Featherlite or the equivalent.
Needless to say, that you were picked that sunny day when that racing legend once again roared to life. A moving Museum of combustible angst paraded around the fairgrounds and an old friend or two came over to see if it were really you.
Then like a Prince and his charioteer you took another lap in this thing called life and remembrance. Cinderella’s Shoe was found in the back seat where it belonged.
Floyd, Times Are Changin 