Many of my close friends are car guys.
Specifically, classic cars — muscle cars. Gas-guzzling, big-block, tire-peeling monsters that growl when you start ’em and snarl when you hit the gas. Sleek, predatory lines — like a panther frozen mid-pounce. Curves and angles shaped with slide rules, not software — back when designers asked “What if?” and engineers answered “Hold my beer.”
And I didn’t seek this out. I don’t collect car guys. I’m not out here asking:
“Do you have a ‘68 GTO? No? Sorry, we can’t be friends.”
It just… happens.
You wake up one morning and realize: “How do I know five different men who each own a blue 1960s Corvette and 6 different guys who own classic Ford Mustangs?
It’s statistically improbable.
But I think it’s because we like people who we are like, or at least who we want to be like. These are the kind of guys I like to think I am — hardworking, nostalgic, problem solvers. And I can’t speak for every car guy, but every car guy I know? They’re the real deal. The kind of men who’ll spend a Saturday rebuilding an engine and a Sunday helping a stranger. They’re involved in their community. They show up for charities. They’re honorable, good men — with grease-stained jeans, calloused hands, and hearts twice as big as their V8s.
And when you know car guys, here’s what happens: you will be invited to a car show. It’s a law of nature.
That’s what happened this morning. I get a group text:
“Hey guys, nothin’ big — my church is hosting a car show. Swing by.”
One of the guys fires back immediately:
“Can we bring beer?”
The original guy chimes in:
“It’s at a church, genius. Probably not.”
I reply:
“Non-alcoholic- then?”
Everyone LOLs.
Then one of them goes:
“Hey Rob — what kind of car would Jesus drive?”
I’m thinking a ‘70 SS Chevelle. Timeless. Powerful.
And of course — a manual. I just can’t picture the Son of God going, “Yeah, just throw it in Drive.”
(Also — I always laugh at those “Jesus is my co-pilot” bumper stickers. You’ve got an omniscient, all-powerful, all-knowing being… and you’re making Him ride shotgun?
“Hey Lord, if you could just handle the glovebox and the aux cable, I got this exit ramp.” No thanks — I’m letting Him drive. I’m not going to hell just for him judging my parallel parking. Melissa does that enough. )
Anyway, my friends all brought their classic cars. I showed up at the car show this morning in my wife’s Japanese-made, lifted souped up rigged out overlanded 99 Toyota 4Runner — 3rd Gen. Fixing up her old college car was a Mother’s Day gift to her a few years back — partly because she is an incredible mom, and partly because apparently I am, as she so lovingly says, “EXTRA.” -She asked for a new mixer. I got her a tactical vehicle.”
As I pull up to the car show, I am surrounded by men who have been waiting all week — maybe all month — to talk about their cars.
And not in normal words. No.
They sound like scientists trying to bring dinosaurs back to life:
“It’s a bored-out 351 with triple Webers and a custom cam grind.”
I’m like: “Yeah, mine’s got… Bluetooth. And cupholders.”
At one point, I wandered up mid-conversation — rookie mistake.
First thing I hear is:
“They only made this trim package for three months in ‘72 because of the synchros.”
And I just stood there, nodding like a man on trial:
“Oh yeah, synchros. Known issue. I had a guy look at mine once. Real tricky.”
Meanwhile, hoods are flying open like carnival games.
Men are pointing inside with reverence, whispering:
“Factory original.”
I look in there and see… pipes. Lots of pipes.
“Yep. Real nice pipes. Those are some premium pipes you got there.”
Then one guy goes:
“You can hear the difference when it drops into third.”
I’m thinking: “Buddy, I can hear a difference when my check engine light comes on. We are not the same.”
But you know what? I loved it.
It was awesome.
A parking lot full of people — dads, grandpas, guys in ball caps with American flags on ‘em — all fired up about something they love. Tons of Vietnam vets. The kind of men who’ve seen a thing or two…
It reminded me why I like these guys.
They come from a world where things get fixed with your hands.
Where you take pride in things that last. Where happiness is sometimes just an old car, a socket wrench, and someone shouting: “Where’s my #$@&%*! 10mm?!” Their idea of a great Saturday? Elbow-deep in a carburetor, covered in grease, blasting Skynyrd in a garage that smells like motor oil and sweat and something that might be burning but no one wants to acknowledge. There’s something sacred about the garage.
It’s the altar of “I can fix it.”
A place where busted knuckles, second-hand parts, and stubborn optimism come to worship. If you ask them what they’re doing this weekend, the answer is often some version of:
“Pullin’ the heads. Swappin’ the cam. Maybe finally fixin’ that damn lifter.”
Meanwhile, I’m like: “Cool. I refilled my windshield wiper fluid today. Yes, all by myself!.”
At the car show an old Marine gave me a keychain for being a veteran Marine myself.
No idea what car it goes to, but next time I’m showing up with it dangling from my finger like I belong.
“Yeah, I’m with the ’72 synchro guys. Big year for us.”
So here’s to the car show guys — turning wrenches, telling stories, keeping old cars — and older friendships — running just a little bit longer.
And right as I’m walking towards my car to leave, a guy pulls up in a beautiful ’70 SS Chevelle — brick reddish, chrome popping in the sun.
He takes one look at my big Japanese rig sitting in the middle of this all-American muscle show, smirks and goes: “JESUS CHRIST.”
And I said to my buddies— “See? I was right. That’s him. That’s what Jesus drives”