A blue-and-primer gray '72 Chevelle with a 327 mouse motor, headers, glass packs, lift kit, the usual. Barkin' the '60's in back on a green light with Zep's 'Kashmir' blasting out of all four speakers while heading to wherever the latest open-field keg party was being thrown that night. Leaving work at 2 a.m. after an after-hours, beer-and-poker session with the rest of management, seeing who could lay the most rubber down Columbia Pike and attract the cops first, sounding like a squadron of four-wheeled pile drivers.
Ah, my misspent, wasted youth. I miss every last moment of it.