My first car was a 1972 Pontiac LeMans sport coupe, shimmering in Adriatic Blue paint with large white racing stripes on each side.
This wasn’t a GTO muscle car, though it sure looked like one. And while my car definitely wasn’t new, it was new enough for a scrawny 16-year-old kid from small-town Indiana looking to explore the world.
My mother surprised me with this hepped-up hardtop, roaring into our driveway as I finished a weekend of tedious yard work. What I remember most—aside from my annoyed older sister grousing about how her first car was an ugly, unreliable family sedan—was the look of pure joy on my mother’s face.