As a father, I shake my head as I think about the story of my first car … a 1971 Triumph Spitfire.

A friend of mine had the car. He took me out in it and taught me to drive a stick shift. I was 16. It was a red convertible with a beautiful leather and wood interior. It was love at first sight.

I showed my dad, and (here’s the real head-shaker) he agreed that I should buy it. (There was no googling reliability or safety back then.) I had my own money. It was 1982. I paid $1,800 for the car.

I loved everything about that little car. It was fun to drive. Very cool. Great to look at. I could hop in it like James Bond. And I rarely (if ever) saw another like it. I could fix it myself just about anywhere (and I had to, often). As time went on, I had it stripped and repainted, I replaced the engine and replaced upholstery. I took such careful care of it. I eventually sold it. Although I’ve gotten excited about some cars since then. There’s nothing that can replace the great memories I have of that little Spitfire.