You ever notice how today’s cars all look like angry toasters? I say that half-joking, but only half. Somewhere along the way, the soul got sucked out of the automobile. And maybe that’s why those of us with a few decades under our belt keep going back to the old iron—the muscle cars, the cruisers, the rolling thunder that once ruled the streets.
Back when I was a kid, your car said something about you. You didn’t need Bluetooth or lane assist to make a statement. Pulling up in a Plymouth Road Runner with the 440 under the hood? That told the world you were here for a good time and weren’t afraid to prove it.
But it wasn’t just about speed—it was about connection. We built these cars. We tuned the carbs on Sunday mornings, dropped transmissions in our buddies’ driveways, and argued over which headers gave the best growl. The garage was our temple, the open road our sanctuary. And the muscle car? That was our chariot.
There’s a romance to it. A simplicity that’s rare these days. You didn’t need a touchscreen to enjoy the ride. You listened to the engine. You felt the car. Every gear shift, every bump in the road—it was all part of the dance. And when that rear end kicked out just right on a corner, or you nailed the launch at the strip, it wasn’t just adrenaline—it was joy.
And let’s not forget: these cars brought people together. Cruise nights, swap meets, and Sunday shows in the park. You weren’t just a driver—you were part of a brotherhood (and a few tough gals too). Still are, if you ask me.
So yeah, maybe I’m nostalgic. Maybe I’m just an old man shouting into the wind about the “good old days.” But you know what? I still get goosebumps when I hear a big block fire up. And I’ll keep wrenching and roaring until my hands can’t turn a socket anymore.
To the younger folks: don’t just drive—feel it. Learn the car. Respect it. The muscle car ain’t just about going fast. It’s about living loud.
—Old-School Forever
