Cars usually fall in the latter category.

There are those who, and I put myself among them, look at cars as a utility. If it works, gets you where you want to go with all the junk you may have and fits in your budget you’re good to go. That’s just being practical.

But, when you’re not married and working your first full time “real” job priorities can be different. Sports cars had my attention although it didn’t start out that way.

My first car was a 1950 Plymouth sedan. I loved the color, a maroon, which turned out to be its greatest asset. I bought it for $150 in Walla Walla, Washington, with the intention of driving across country. I hadn’t really thought this through, but fortified with visions to the trip I told several Whitman College classmates I planned to embark on this adventure. One of them had a summer job in Lander, Wyoming and was looking for a ride. It was a good thing. We didn’t even get to Oregon before we had a blow out. Fortunately, we weren’t going that fast. Unfortunately, the spare was bald, although it did get us into the nearest town where, after a lot of searching through used tires piled behind a garage, we found a replacement for $7.

We made it to Lander, but that was the end of the road. The car sputtered and starting to smoke as we limped into town. I had the sense to stop. It was outside a tavern which turned out to be a good move. I opened the hood, not knowing what I should look for. A few sympathetic tavern patrons offered their opinions. The consensus was that it wasn’t worth fixing. Now, I was faced with a dilemma, what do I do with this car and how do I get back east?

Maroon saved me. An American Indian, who had had too much to drink, was among the onlookers. He raved over the color. He offered me $50 on the spot and he handed over the money in silver dollars. My passenger also came to my aid. He had a job with Geneva Steel and thought they might have something for me, too. They did, and over the summer I earned enough to buy a Hudson Jet for $250 and made it back east. There were more cars to come. I even tackled replacing the head gasket on a 503 Peugeot.

Then I discovered Porsches.  The one that counts is the 1962 356B I bought in 1965. I still have it.

The 1962 was a big step up from the 1956, I bought for $900 and sold for the same amount. She was temperamental. She started sometimes, so I learned to park on a hill in order to get a jump start.

I found the 356B in a Rambler used car lot. She had been there for an extended period, which made the salesman all the more anxious to listen to my offer. I got her for $2,000 which was more than I was willing to pay, but she started and she was a Porsche. Besides, I hadn’t yet reached the age where practicality and utility were major considerations.

All these years and 350,000 miles later - that’s a guess since the odometer ceased working - she is still on the road. For decades she was my everyday car until the family grew as did the Beacon. A Ford Fairmont was ideal for kids and hauling newspapers. The Porsche went through a lot.. Winter and salt took their toll. Rust broke out like nasty boils and I sent her off for some body work and a change of color from the original red to Kelly green. She returned with a new dress, but as I was to discover a change of heart. She had lost her pep and as I learned from my regular mechanic eight months later  this was not the engine he was accustomed to working on. I couldn’t prove the theft.

The revival from that point forward has been an endurance test. Over about 25 years, another engine was found, the interior was refinished; the chasis was reinforced and she was restored to red. In the last two years the restoration came together with a rebuilt engine and in the last month the body work and paint to make heads turn.

She’s isn’t as cranky as she once was and she’s quick.

 She’s fun to drive. It’s a time relived.

Yet I feel her age, or is it me?

I don’t slide in and out of the front seat as easily as I used to. The ride can be rough. I don’t accelerate through the curves like I used to. I suppose I could push it. But somehow it’s not worth it. Why spoil it when being behind the wheel brings back the feel of a time long gone?

She’s made me realize that while we strive to recreate what we love of the past, the joy of life is that it’s always different, although I still can see that maroon Plymouth.