Photo Credit: Sheree Zielke: Author of Martha's Vine & Martha's Mirror

This is the machine that does it for me. This is my “instant heartache.”

This is a Dodge Challenger! One of the finest muscle (pony) cars ever designed, but only those models designed in the early 70s.

My love affair with this car began 40 years ago. There was a brilliant purple version of this vehicle, with hood scoops and venetian blinds, which would rumble past my bedroom window. Our farmhouse was situated on a gravel road, and the farm boy who owned the car (Stevie) had to drive by our house to get home.

I learned to both identify and love the sound of its engine, the rumble of it mufflers: Thrush or Hollywood - I don’t remember which. I just know they were not really legal.

I clearly remember what that rumble did inside my 15-year old soul, but my love of cars had been firmly established a long time before I became a teenager.

I drove my first car when I was 5. Well, not actually, but it sure felt like I was driving. My dad would sit me on his knee and I would “steer” his ’55 Oldsmobile. I know today that his hand never left the wheel, but the feeling of the steering wheel in my hands, and the rush of adrenaline that swept through me when my father pressed down on the accelerator, set the stage for my lifelong love affair with cars. And with speed. And with muscle.

I loved anything with a powerful engine, a gas pedal or a throttle lever, and some steering device. I raced power toboggans and motorcycles, and my mother’s Chevy Corvair. I raced it, I stalled it, but I never crashed it.

There is something wild inside my head, my blood, and my soul -- that only the feeling of intense acceleration can feed, nurture, and assuage.

I have owned a ’66 ‘Stang, a ’73 ‘Cuda, and now I run a '05 Magnum. There are days when I must drive my Magnum fast, furiously, and with wild abandon. “With wild abandon” -- it’s the only way to truly appreciate a fast car. It must be embraced fully; there are no half measures. Fear just isn’t a factor.

My Magnum has since become a classic now that Dodge has stopped making these cars, but will it ever take the place of a 1970 Challenger in my heart?

Not even a small chance.

But a Challenger has no room for a trio of grandkids; a Magnum does. Therefore, at least for now, my love of my grandkids will take precedence over my love of a hot muscle car.

But some day . . .

Until that day, I will live with this “instant heartache.”

Sheree