For the first time, Mom let me drive her four-door 1965 Chevelle over the narrow country roads on Pender Island where my grandparents lived. I was 15 and surprised when she offered me the driver’s seat; Mom and I fought a lot. When I think back to those days, she was just attempting to share one of her passions with me. But the ceasefire didn’t last, and we didn’t forge a bond until years later. I felt like a grown-up that day behind the wheel: it was exhilarating. I wanted more.

I got my license at 16 and continued to drive the family car to school and work at the local swimming pool. Most of every paycheck was saved for a car of my own because I hated having to ask to borrow Mom’s Chevelle. Asking usually involved an interrogation, followed by a continuation of verbal tug-of-war over who was the boss of me. 

Eventually, I found a car I could afford: a 1962 Triumph Herald, the small four-speed cousin of the Triumph sports car. 

Goodbye family four-door, hello Herald. 

Herald was a lovely rich burgundy color and we quickly became inseparable. I don’t think my parents had any idea of just how far we went or how many beers I could drink, but I’d gotten what I’d wanted. I was away from Mom’s rules and had the freedom to go anywhere.

I became addicted to speed. It was inevitable that I eventually traded Herald for my first muscle car, a mellow yellow 1972 Gremlin X. A beautiful six-cylinder with black racing stripes. I bought ‘chromies’ to muscle it up; chrome rims were much cheaper than mags. Bob Seger demanded that I play the eight-track loud. I didn’t argue.

Not long after turning 17, I fell in love with a 1970 Dodge Dart Swinger. Pumpkin orange, this amazing car blinded me to the faults of the cute guy driving it. A few years later, John and I married and had two beautiful sons. Once the car was gone, I realized that it was the only thing John and I had in common, besides the boys. 

I had exchanged my hard won, short-lived freedom for another kind of sentence. John had flaws, serious ones. After seven oppressive years of never being enough to make up for John’s instability, I left the marriage in a 1974 Volvo sedan, a total grocery-getter. It was a sturdy old luxury car that listed sideways in a strong wind. The Volvo reflected the precise image of me, a 27-year-old failure with her tail caught between her legs.

With the passage of time, a new boyfriend, and a different car, I slowly began to recover from the divorce. Jac helped me find the car of my dreams: a black 1966 Acadian Canso, six-cylinder and two-door hardtop. The only drawback was the two-speed power glide automatic. I was a gear-jammer at heart, but the car was too beautiful to pass up. I left Jac to haggle. He was famous for his dickering skills.

“The car is yours,” Jac said, stifling a smirk. “And, you and the kids won’t have to starve.”

I shrieked and threw my arms around his neck.

Being with Jac was intoxicating and liberating. If I was dancing on a table, instead of hauling me down, Jac would climb up there with me. He was a successful and confident grown-up who was, thankfully, responsible for himself.

The dreamy Canso transformed this downtrodden single mother back into a confident chick, joyriding with a couple of chicklets. The Canso, the kids, and I cruised about a million miles together, windows down, hair flying—hard topping.

The Canso re-built my self-confidence. I was back in the driver’s seat of a sweet car. It didn’t matter that there were two baby seats in the back. Gone was the divorced has-been, and in her place was a hip, sexy mom who could still afford new socks and underwear after filling up her hot car.

I spent many predawn hours in the gravel driveway happily buffing the Canso’s sleek black coat to a shine. Singing along with the stereo while breathing in her heady vintage scent reminded me there was much to be thankful for.

Sadly, after years of everyday driving on salted roads, the Canso rusted away. Jac and I had been married for a few years by then and the boys were teenagers, so they were too busy with their friends to hang out with us. I needed new wheels and, luckily, we both had time for a project.

We found a beautiful deep blue 1967 Chevy II, which needed an engine and a complete redo of the interior. 

The question was how to make it my own, when it had been purchased with married money. Reupholstering the interior myself was a start, but it wouldn’t be enough to put my stamp on it.

I could tell Jac understood when he said: “You could also rebuild the 327.”

I laughed.

“I’ll teach you,” he said. And he did.

Step by step he explained what to do, then left me to it. I learned a lot, building that engine. One time I rolled over my long hair on the creeper and couldn’t move either way until Jac crawled under the car and freed me. I also learned to suck it up when I skinned my knuckles or pinched my fingers. Once I saw stars when the trunk lid came down on my head, but otherwise, I resurfaced unscathed and triumphant.

To my amazement, the engine started up the first time and rumbled a sexy heartbeat. My stomach did a flip as I squealed.

“So, what do you think?” Jac asked.

My eyes flooded. “I built her with my own two hands, and she’s perfect.”

On the open road my heart sang whenever I put the hammer down. She chugged the high-octane fuel and roared. Heads turned. We were a picture of strength and glory, my beautiful muscle car—and me.