My dad owns a ’57 Chevy Bel Air. This is the view from the passenger seat on a recent night drive:
I am not a car guy. I really do not care about what I drive – driving is just a method of transportation.
But, for me, riding in a ’57 is different. Sitting in this car is a transcendent experience. The car smells like a car; sounds like a car. It’s loud, but not noticibly so. There is no AC. There are vent windows.
The switch to turn on the brights is on the floor. You turn the brights on with your foot! That, my friends, is cool. We ride in silence, mostly. What needs to be said?
The car represents pure optimism. And, I think that optimism was prescient. The other night my dad and I both had smartphones sitting on the front seat between us. Just the growth in technology alone justifies the optimism of the 1950s.
But the ultimate feature isn’t really a feature, rather it’s a side effect. Anytime we stop at a light people pulling up beside us get excited. Especially people over 65. ’57s remind people of their youth, their family, their passed-on parents, and so much more. That’s the magic of a ’57. A car with life to it.
Britton Giroux 