You Never Forget Your First
- Kellen Wilson
- Mar 31, 2024
- 4 min read
Late fall in Texas is not a frigid affair and that held true on this particular day. However, the seasons do command the sun to fall earlier than it does in warmer months. So, it was night when my father told me to jump in his truck. There was something he wanted to show me.
My father is a fairly large man, a former defensive lineman for the Texas Longhorns who almost had an NFL career. When my friends met him for the first time, most were a little nervous until his naturally kind disposition shone through. That being said, I am a stark contrast to my father, especially when I was 15.
As 15-year-old me piled into my dad's F-250, a truck that somehow matched his stature, I was barely 150 pounds, a little short, and as nerdy as any teenager who was obsessed with both Star Wars and Star Trek.
On the outside, my father and I could not seem more different from one another, but our passions align in a way few people could imagine. On this night, said concurrences would once again become clear.
We pulled up to a car lot on the other side of town and by the time my father cut the engine, my heart was thrumming. In the summer, I took and passed my driver's education course. Now, I was waiting for my 16th birthday, when the State of Texas would mail my driver's license to me. But what was the point of having a driver's license without a car to drive?
Up until this point, I had regarded choosing my car with a degree of ambivalence. Like every kid who vaguely liked cars, I had a favorite, but reality had set in and I realized I was not getting the RT/10 Viper I had been obsessed with since I was 12. After ruling out my "dream car," I had sailed on the sea of potential car ownership like a listless ship without a heading.
This was a symptom of the fact that I was not yet a gearhead. I knew about cars, I potentially knew more than most kids my age, but I had no visceral understanding of the automotive. I had no preferences other than the outward look of a car. I did not understand suspension, torque, or horsepower, and that was understandable. I had driven a few cars, trucks, and SUVs since getting my learner's permit, but those had been short experiences focused on keeping my vehicle in its lane. I had never felt a connection to an automobile, never had a reason to pay attention to performance stats or their meaning. That would change tonight.
My father is a gearhead. He understands cars, especially the classics. He also harbors an understanding of his son and perhaps even knew why I could not pick a car for myself. He took that insight and let it guide him to a vehicle that was not only a great car but the perfect car for 15-year-old me.
He showed me a blue BMW 325i convertible. Its top had once been a deep navy blue, but it was now faded. The plastic window on the top was a little cloudy and had a piece of tape covering a crack. However, the wheels were in near perfect condition and the light blue paint of the exterior was just stygian enough to communicate a level of badassery simmering under the surface of the car.
I didn't know what a 325i was. I didn't know its performance numbers. I didn't know what it could do. Its pug nose was a bit of a turn-off for me, after all, I was a teenage boy enamored with the body lines of vehicles like the Viper, the Mustang Mach III, and the Prowler. But I could forgive the nose because it was my favorite color, because it was a convertible, because it had a roundel on the hood stamped with three letters that I knew commanded automotive respect--BMW.
We sat in the car. The leather was worn, but it was the same deep blue that the top should have been. It felt smooth but had the texture of life, imperfect yet sublime. I loved leather before this car but feeling those seats was like falling in love with the stuff all over again.
I turned the key and started the car. The burble of the inline-six engine had no meaning to me, but I still revved the engine as I had seen it done on TV. I liked the sound.
The window switches weren't working right, but at this point, my father had told me we had plenty of time to get the issues sorted since it was October and my license wouldn't be here until August.
Now that I had looked it over, had started it, felt it run, my father asked if I liked it. I answered with an emphatic, yes. This car matched me, heart and soul. It sparked off a love of the automotive that I never realized was there. It turned a car fan into an automotive fanatic, and it created a cherished bond between my father and I.
Dad left me with the car so he could go do the paperwork to buy it. I fawned over the vehicle and burned the memory of how it became my first car into my memory. I had always wondered how my dad had managed to find such a perfect car for me in the small Texas town we lived in. Decades later, he told me, and I realized just how well my father actually knows me. You see, that entire night was a masterful setup.
Weeks, maybe even a month or two, before the grand reveal, my father was at an auto auction with a friend when that 325i came across the block as a wrecked salvage title vehicle. He saw that car, saw its potential, and knew it would be perfect for me. He bid on it, got it, and took it to his friend's garage to start the rebuild.
In his spare time, my father rebuilt that BMW, and when it was drivable and looking good again, he took it to his friend's car lot and set the stage.
This was my introduction to the automotive world. It was not a baptism of fury and fire. It was a loving warm embrace.
Thanks Dad, this is definitely something I am going to try to pass on to your grandson.
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