LIKE SOME OTHER YOUNG boys of my generation, my car lust was fueled in part by a book published in 1954 titled The Red Car, authored by Don Stanford. The novel was about a relatively poor kid growing up with a love of cars who, by a series of happenstances was able to buy a partially wrecked MG TC—a small British sports car with two seats, wire-spoke wheels, and a racing heritage—and repair it. Of course, the car was red and by the end of the story it brought the kid happiness, success, and a pretty girl.
Of course, my car lust started prior to reading the novel. Family lore has it that my first word was “automobile,” and long before I could read , I could identify any kind of vehicle on the streets of Brooklyn, New York; apparently, I would interrupt conversations to do so. That habit, annoying to some, continues to this day when I.
