One by one, cats eyes whiz past my left shoulder at such speed they’re nearly an unbroken yellow line. The universe shrinks down. All that exists is the heat, the wind, the noise, and my buddy just ahead of me in his first-gen NSX, a silver rocket amidst the rolling, golden expanse of Central California.
Transfixed, I admire the back of said Acura flowing over the slightly bumpy backroad, almost a mirage. Suddenly I touch the rev-limiter in a gear normally reserved for dyno runs. The noise abates and returns with purpose as I quickly find the next gear. My idiotic grin becomes a cackle as I briefly consider how many of these cars, both his NSX and the Integra Type R I’m piloting, are today normally relegated to garage spaces. Both seen and treated as retired athletes more suited to bask in former glories than ready-to-buck sport cars.
You really ought to drive your damn sport cars.
Mileage anxiety, depreciation, wear, risk, risk, and more risk. Using a machine as intended today is seen as somehow worse than allowing said car to atrophy, to become an aged-tire-wearing, leaks-when-awoken shrine to the idea of performance. Indiana Jones may have said, “It belongs in a museum…” but he was almost always referring to a singular relic from a bygone civilization, a description that almost never applies to the machines produced by the thousands in the last few decades.
On a triple-digit-heat day in the middle of nowhere, the risk in mind was a potential lack of vacancies at the destination rest stop following the afternoon’s antics (also the potential that the wine in my overnight bag would be unhappy after being in the hot car all day). No cog was left unused, no section of the tachometer found lonely, no tire wondering what the limit of adhesion tasted like.
Many would ask how could you drive cars so special in such a free manner, when the question should be how could you not? So many of the most prominent sport cars of the last few generations were produced by teams of die-hard enthusiasts. Business sense be damned; what inspired them were homologation in yet-to-be-golden-era race series, the culmination of meaningful careers, or just a dedication to giving driving enthusiasts what they really wanted. Almost none concerned themselves with ROI or the secondhand market in the way we’ve become familiar with. A high MSRP was something that happened in secret, not with the intention of headlining the next collector car auction.
Your special bottle of wine, your most capable timepiece, your meaningful automobile. They’re all best when consumed as intended, whatever execution suits them. If you appreciate that special four-wheeled contraption as much as you say you do, drive it. Both you and the machine will be better for it.