Corvette just wasn’t quite his style

Editor’s note:  This column is being reprinted from Sept. 22, 2004. Jack eventually got the Jaguar that was on the list of cars in which he had pictured himself behind the wheel. It was far more his style than the Corvette.

The vanity plates caught my eye.

“AWHSUM” said one, with dubious spelling. “QCKNFUN” said the plate on the car in front of “AWHSUM.”

Then I noticed they were both Corvettes.

And only then did I notice that they were the last in a string of six ’Vettes ahead of us.

It was Sunday at mid-day, and we were heading west out of Bloomington on Ind. 46 after a delightful freshmen parents’ weekend visit with Sally at Indiana University.

The sky was cloudless blue, and the day couldn’t have been more perfect for a drive the long way home. We moved away from the bustle of Bloomington toward the winding roads and hillsides of Brown County.

Leaf-peeping season is still on the horizon, but the Hoosier landscape was lovely just the same.

It was perfect roadster weather, and the six ’Vettes in front of us were tooling along the highway like a scene from a car commercial.

“Those guys are having a ball,” I said, moving through the curves in the family Dodge.

“Did you ever want to own one of those?” asked my wife.

It was an interesting question. She didn’t mention anything about being able to afford a Corvette. There was no mention of practicality. Things like cargo space and gas mileage weren’t brought up.

Instead, it was all a matter of “want.”

I felt the steering wheel under my hands as we moved through another curve and thought about it.

Like any red-blooded American guy, I’ve found myself lusting after more than one automobile over the years. Usually more practical concerns and little things like price tags have scared me off. I’d had a little Avenger at one point, which was essentially a Mitsubishi Eclipse with a different label, but had traded it in about the time Sally was getting her driver’s license.

At one time or another, I’ve pictured myself behind the wheel of a dozen different cars, most of them impractical and exotic. Cobras, Jaguars, Porsches, vintage MGs and more mundane Detroit products have all had a place on my wish list at one time or another. 

There are times that I’ve even checked the prices on reproductions of the old Auburn boat-tail speedster.

But a Corvette was another story.

There’s something about a ’Vette that either fits with your personality or doesn’t.

It’s not so much a car as it is a personal statement. It says who you are, what you’re about and what you value. It speaks — simultaneously — of youth and the passage of youth into middle age.

It’s one of those cars where ownership isn’t just ownership, it’s membership in a fraternity of owners.

“Well,” said my wife.

“Nope,” I said. “It’s so low to the ground I don’t think my knees would be able to handle getting in and out of the thing.”

With thoughts that practical, I probably wouldn’t have been admitted to the fraternity anyway.