How Has Your Dad Affected Your Love of Cars?

Two ways.

First, he drove an E30 BMW for as long as I can remember. It started with a white ’87 325es, a trim level I’ve had an incredibly difficult time finding in the classifies since “is” is far more common. I remember him having to maneuver all weird and slow to get up the driveway without destroying his huge air dam. After that, he moved to white 325ix E30. No more gorgeous BWM revs roaring up our steep driveway in the winter as he tried to get home in the RWD es.

The second way he influenced me, is by telling me my car craziness would subside with age. I couldn’t imagine an infection so intense just going away. Plus, because he said it would happen, I was determined not to let it. It wasn’t meant as reverse psychology, but I’m still grateful for it. After family and my children, there is nothing in this world that brings me so much, joy, sadness and inspiration, than cars.

Love you dad.

My father’s illness and passing away triggered my love of cars. By that time I have forgotten my childhood’s obsession with scale models and didn’t care about cars at all. Then I realized I had to have something to remember my dad and the happy days of my childhood. My mind was fixed on the 1973 Audi 100 LS he had kept for eighteen years. This car was part of numerous family memories. First I bought an 1/43 scale model of the same colour (emerald Green), then another and another and another. And then I wanted the car itself. I found an identical car of the same model year, the same colour, the same upholstery and restored it. Then I wanted my father’s first car, an 1967 Ford Taunus 12M. I found that too. Then I met other petrolisti. There was no way back. Now I own six classic cars and over 600 scale models……

My father is the complete reason I love cars. From when I was little he would tell stories of his Teal 57 Chevy convertible that he drove to and from high school, or the black Impala SS that he rolled over into a field while doing some street racing on the main drag in town. the list goes on an on, 64 GTO convertibles,olds 442’s I heard all about them and when I was 9 we bought a 1972 Dodge charger and together restored that but it eventually went when he wanted to by a new Harley. I took his love of american muscle cars and elaborated on it. I developed my own special interests. Vintage Ferraris and Maseratis taking center stage in my heart. While I will never have the millions upon millions it takes to own one of these beautiful works of Italian art, I try and appreciate and respect the beauty from afar. Me and my father still get together to watch the auction shows on T.V or any number of other automotive programming, hell sometimes if I see a split window coupe go by Ill just call him to say “hey dad you missed it.” my love of cars is a love my father instilled in me its the most special bond we have. Now that I at 23 have taken on a 71 TR-6 its my father that calls me with the age old question of “Hey Matthew can I borrow the car.”

My father is a bit of a character. He has issues showing his true emotions about just about anything. Among the things he shows least is joy. From the time I was a kid, living with my family in a two room apartment in Brooklyn, however, I would hear stories about the many cars he owned before getting married (the Lancia, the Alfa Romeo, the 59 Cadillac, the 65 GTO, etcetera, etcetera) and invariably, a smile would crack over his face. He would talk about what is was like to use the shifter on the Duetto, how fast he could tackle the curves on throttle with the car, how tranquil the Lancia was when driven above 80mph and the smell of the Leather interior in that car, and how the failure of the brakes on his 59 Caddy almost got him killed on the Southern State Parkway but how the only real victim at the end of that ordeal, was a poor old oak tree that stood in the Cadillac’s way as it was gliding along the wooded median on the highway, gradually coming to a stop.
Supposedly, my father was trained as a barber, and every couple of weeks he would cut my hair and do a fantastic job of it, but he always refused to do it for a living. Instead, all I remember him doing when I was growing up, was driving cars for a living, either as a car service driver or as a cab driver in New York City. I remember once in a while he would take me with him on his night shifts, driving all over Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. He drove a 1988 Chevy Caprice with a 302 V8 at the time. He drove that car with such nonchalant skill, confidence, and dexterity, that it never ceased to amaze me. What also amazed me was how well he seemed to know all the nooks and crannies of the city. I used to love to watch all the cabs go by next to his, with all their different battle scars and medallion numbers, and I used to wonder what each of those cars had been though, how many bumps or accidents they had been through. For something so seemingly silly or boring to obsess over, it never failed to captivate my attention.
My mother still has pretty much all of her family in Italy. Supposedly, my she noticed my tendency towards automotive obsession when we were waiting for a ferry for Sicily in Italy in 1985. My cousin was killing time and trying to placate me by pointing to all the cars in the parking lot and naming them by brand, model, and year. By the time the ferry trip was over, I was doing the same thing for all the cars that were passing us by on the streets and I would not stop doing just that for the whole rest of our Italian Vacation.
I could go on and on, but I guess you get the point…
Thanks for the opportunity to write about my passion and obsession.

My dad is totally the reason I’m into cars and consider myself a gearhead. Growing up around him working on our old VWs or his ’69 Lotus Europa, it just seemed natural to me. Clearly my dad thinks this stuff is cool. It must be cool. It is cool! And I’m totally trying to be that way with my son.

The picture I’m including is from early ’79 and I was then about the age my son is now. Been meaning to get myself, him, and my VW bus over to my parents house to recreate this shot.

Dad spoke fondly of the hot rodded ’53 Ford that he used to pile up speeding tickets while in the Air Force; he took me to watch modified races at Flemington and antique truck shows in Macungie. He took me to little league practice on the back of a ’75 Honda CB500T, and I stood around handing him tools while he resurrected the rusty ’66 Mustang that I chose for my first car, learning a little but mostly just being awed by the fact that he always seemed to know exactly what to do in any situation, and always had the right tool for the job. I didn’t inherit the mechanic (or carpenter) gene, but I did inherit his love of vehicles in all their many forms. He passed away in December, but I feel his presence when riding his Harley or running errands in his ’93 F250. It’s therapy … A kind of communion.

I vividly remember my father referring to racing as “expensive” and frowning upon my car builds. A 16 year old’s translation: “you’ll never be able to succeed building and racing cars.” Fifteen years later and I pay my mortgage and feed my family with an income from motorsports.

Lucklily, I had amazing Grandfathers who taught me mechanics and passed their stubbornness and tenacity on to me.

[i]I wrote this for my blog some time ago:[/i]

I’m almost certain it started with a spaghetti shooting tank.

I was around 3 or 4 when I remember my dad making reel-to-reel tapes of his voice. He was sending messages to his brother, who was living in England. I, of course, had no idea what that meant. But from this start I had a life long exposure to English culture, and specifically, mechanics.

With the next mail, I got a present. It was a small, metal tank. unlike a lot of american toys, this was heavy, with working treads, and a spring loaded barrel. it was probably supposed to come with some small plastic bullets or something, but those were missing, so we broke bits of spaghetti into short bits, and they shot out of the barrel quite nicely when we flipped the little lever.

This was my first Corgi toy. Corgi made amazing toys, most famously the James Bond cars, with shooting rockets and ejector seats and such, and my uncle sent them along with his tapes. Not too much later, something much larger arrived.

A flatbed truck with two very, very small cars arrived. Bigger than my tank, but smaller than any American car that I had seen.

These were Minis.

Between the two, I found out that one had a good body, and the other had a great engine. Both were rolled into our garage, and I watched as they were torn into bits. These bits were then reassembled into one working car. Ten the thing of the working car began. I watched as this little blue car, smaller than the hood of my grandfather’s Oldsmoblie, was upgraded and tuned, in our own garage.

Racing seats and five-point seat belts were added. Front rally lights were bolted on, and the whole car got “works” tuned. This was during the 70′s gas crisis, and this tuned sports car got over 30 MPG, and was our daily driver.

Then the Lotus arrived.

The Lotus Super Seven was a british kit car, not in the American sense that you would take a cheap car, like a VW Bug, and slap a body onto it to make a kit, but in the sense that you would get an open wheel race car in several boxes, and assemble it in your garage. This one was driven by my uncle in London, and now we had it. it had frozen badly in shipment, and was torn down to the frame by my father for rebuild.

We had a tubular frame in our garage for quite a while, I remember being able to pick it up and carry it around before getting yelled at for running off with the car. Bits would get riveted and bolted on each week, and it became more and more of a car. It was mostly back together when the Aston Martin arrived.

I knew the Aston right away, as I had the Corgi James Bond toy on my shelf. This was a DB6, not a DB5 as in the movies, and was in surprisingly good shape.

This was just my start with British cars.

My entire childhood was spent around little bins of parts saved for reassembly, marked and kept, as replacements were hard to find. We watched Monty Python and The Prisoner on channel 9 at night. I recognized the Lotus 7 in the credits, naturally. I also wondered why the other kids did not. and wondered why they looked at me funny when I mentioned watching The Prisoner.

Much of this explains why, earlier this year, I had no choice but to buy a Triumph Spitfire from my friend Henry. He made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse.

When he dropped it off, I could see that he was nervous. He was afraid that I might be upset by the condition of the car. The body was dented, the passenger floor had major holes from rust, as did the battery case. No lights worked. The brakes were built from hopes and wishes.

But I knew, that for a British car, this ranked as “average”. Henry had already dropped in a new engine and rebuilt the front suspension. These were the money jobs. The rest I could do.

And so far I have. Older cars are very easy to work on compared to modern cars. The systems are simple, parts are pretty cheap, so long as it isn’t a true classic. Tearing into this car and rebuilding some worn out system doesn’t feel like work.

It feels like home.

My father is, without a doubt, the main reason I love cars and motorsport. He has owned so many cool vehicles over the years that I can’t even begin the list.
He was a racer, mechanic, designer, and crew chief and I count my lucky stars that I have been able to glean so much knowledge from him over the years. He was always way ahead of his time, and was constantly designing and making new tools and parts. In my opinion, he is one the few remaining of a dwindling breed that has a complete understanding of a vehicle and systems and dynamics. He has always had an intuitive mechanical ability that somehow transcends even his lifelong accumulation of experience. Over the years, I have witnessed him mentor many racing mechanics, show tricks to F1 transmission designers (although this was not his specialty). I will never forget once at Daytona, when a factory Porsche team could not get a GTR1 to hook up after days of practice, one of the drivers (a friend), now very frustrated, finally convinced my father to take a look (much to the chagrin of his own team). He walked up to the car when they had the gearbox removed, assessed it, and within minutes they were up and running. I like this story because he was not a gearbox specialist, nor had he ever seen this car before. He just had a way of seeing things and was always up for helping people out, whether it be friends or, by chance, the Works Porsche team, usually anonymously.

Together we have worked on everything from 100 year old cast iron fabrication machinery to state-of-the-art carbon fibre aerodynamic development.

As a father, I hope that I can pass on a large portion of this knowledge and methodology to my children, who are already infected with the racing virus.

Happy Father’s Day!

My father really got my into cars at a very young age. His father was a Zone Rep. for Chrysler and he got into Mopar as a kid. As I got older my dad introduced me to F1 and foreign cars which was great fun for both of us since he really didn’t know much about them. Now, when we are together, we work on old cars and hang out in the garage. He helped me restore my 1973 Monte Carlo and I could’t be happier with our relationship.

My parents met cruising Van Nuys blvd in the early 70’s.. apparently my mom was drawn to the blonde guy with the red 356 Super 90. Go figure.

Growing up, he kept a ’66 912 under wraps in the garage (arguably the first car I ever “drove”) but gravitated towards boats and ex-Bondurant Broncos as they provided a bit more room for the family. You really haven’t lived until you’re desperately trying to keep your 12 year-old arm off the Olds 455 header blaring away next to you (in some very choppy water).

In short, I was screwed from the beginning. My only goal is to get him into a 911 soon.

Well, my dad is actually an aerial cropdusting pilot, but he taught me some mechanics and taught me how to service my own car, because he loves his own car. He took his part in lighting the fire in my heart. Mostly I learned “how to love cars” because of my brother’s friend, who owned Alfa Romeo 164 3.0 V6. Soon after that my dad bought Lancia Kappa (2.4 inline-5 petrol) and I fell in love with italian cars completely (along with my dad). When I recieved my driver’s license, my grandpa (he was 80 back then, now 83) gave me his 1993 Fiat Cinquecento (704cc, inline-twin 31 bhp), as he bought 1997 Fiat Punto 1.1 (my grandpa had only FIATs). Thanks to my dad’s mechanics lessons and my brother’s friend “love-for-cars” lessons, that Cinquecento is still with me by now, even though I mostly drive 1992 Opel Astra 1.6 right now (I bought it myself, because it’s quick, comortable and easy to maintain). However my next car will certainly be Alfa Romeo. Why? Because I love Italian cars as much as my dad (he still owns his Lancia Kappa, it has 400k km by now) and as brother’s friend does (that friend now owns 75, 90, 164 and 166, all with Busso’s V6 engines).

My Dad turns 83 this year, and as I turn 47 I see some similarities and some differences. My dad was a petrolhead of sorts, but not your standard fair. With a love for foreign cars when they weren’t exactly in fashion, and a 1923 Stanley Steamer that he still has to this day.

My Dad was a maverick and loved funky cars. I have distant memories of the family’s gold Rambler, then going to trade that in at the local car dealership for a preowned Mercedes Benz 250SE, Blue with white leather interior. He drove that car from the late 60’s to the early 80’s. Column shift 4 spd with a clutch! He put 250k miles on that car, on the original clutch and he loved that car…I know that he liked to go fast as I can recall a few spirited spins up on-ramps to get on the freeway and always making sure his kids were wearing their seat belts.

In the late 70’s my parents acquired a 1971 BMW 1600, this was the car that I took my drivers test in and learned how to drive. A great car, under powered, chrome bumpers, lots of glass and fun to drive. This was “Mom’s” car but from time to time I got to drive it, and drive it I did.

Since I can remember we have had the Stanley, a 1923 behemoth, six passenger monster tall enough that it wont fit under most garage doors, long enough that you cant walk behind it if it is in the garage, and cool enough for a young petrolhead like me to play gangster in it as a kid. Yes, there are photos.

To date since I have been aware of this Stanley it has not driven under its own power, my dad has thought several times of selling it, but about 2 years ago something changed. I don’t know what exactly but he took interest in it again and now it is being finished at last. I hope to drive it with him, and enjoy a few short hours behind the wheel of this monster. We have talked about the California Mille and I hope that comes to fruition, it would be a fitting closing chapter to the guy who by hook and crook got me into cars…I think it was in my DNA.

At 47 I race vintage Datsuns, the cars that were out front in my childhood, driven and raced by my racing heroes. Morton, Brock, Parkinson, Tilton, Knepp, Devendorff, Sharp, PLN…and many more. I guess I have an eclectic taste for what I like too. Thanks Dad.

Sometimes I like to think this addiction of mine would have grown without influence, but the fact of the matter is my Dad is wholly responsible. Our family car for the first 11 years of my life was my father’s first car, or truck I should say. A beautifully restored 1960 Chevy Apache with a C-10 hood and a host of other very tasteful modifications. My Dad chronicled the restoration with a whole album of photos, which I drooled over repeatedly throughout my childhood and high school years. I was under the truck holding a flashlight and learning everything I could as far back as I can recall. As I grew so did my interest, so Pop excitedly fueled it with car shows, races, cruise nights at the local burger joint, and endless conversation about all the cars we liked and didn’t like. Despite my father’s intensely busy work schedule, my first car was a classic we spent countless hours fiddling with; a 66 Volkswagen Type III Fastback. Though it was a far cry from my Dad’s love of American muscle, his enthusiasm was just as genuine as it would’ve been had I chose a Chevelle. Without his time, influence, teaching, and giant toolbox in the garage, I wouldn’t know the joy I get from this hobby today. Thanks Pop!!

My Dad has so many different cars in his life, where do I start? At one time had a Lotus 7, and when my Mom was about to have me, he got a family car: a brand new 1965 Mustang GT. My childhood is filled with a rotating door of mostly smaller, British sporty cars that handled. He would find a worn out one, bring it home, and over time rebuild it in to a respectable runner. Until another one would catch his eye, then he’d sell one he had fixed and repeat the cycle. My first car? A 1972 Honda 600 Sedan hand me down, that became my Mini Cooper while in high school. When I wrecked it (I miscounted the whoopedy do’s on a dirt road through the orange groves near our home) Dad made me rebuild it using the best parts from it and the two spare parts cars we had. Then he sold it! Tough lesson, but I learned much about working on cars. I wish I had spent more time with my Dad in the garage. His little pinky knows more about cars than I ever will. But he did give me a deep appreciation for fuel burning speed machines. Thanks, Dad.

My old man’s worked for American Honda since 1986. For as long as I can remember, he’d been bringing home the newest Honda’s and Acura’s. Yeah, that includes early Civic’s and Vigor’s, but so too CRX’s, first-gen Integra’s, and then those badged VTEC. At night or on early morning weekends, he’d drive me all over the deserted backcountry roads near where we lived, just tossing whichever GS-R or VTEC Prelude or CL-S he brought home into the corners. When I was a little shit, I’d ask him, “Dad, does this one do 100?” And he’d show me, and I’d grin and squeal as if riding a roller coaster. Later, it was Legend’s on family road trips, NSX’ to Little League games and S2000’s over the Ortega Highway. Naturally, when I was young and dumb enough to join the Army, I sought out my first (attainable) love on a Private’s salary–a 4th-generation Prelude Si. And when I was seemingly younger and dumber enough to blow its engine, I swapped in the better VTEC plant and its JDM transmission with LSD. Though I’ve since moved on to more family-friendly, turbocharged wagon(s) in another corner of the country, that Prelude sits beneath a cover back home, in homage of the times I spent with my old man, just waiting for me to let loose its VTEC snarl. Hard to believe that my own kid’ll be ready for her in just 7 years.

I hope my comments will be good enough for a Mr Phil Smiedt but honestly could care less what he thinks anyways my dad is the single biggest reason I love cars in the first place. Any time we are in the car and we pass a classic car we start to instantly talk about it. We talk about the style of the car and the way it sounds and all the things we may or may not like about it. I found my dad and I have a lot in common but I learned over the years there is some cars he likes that I just cant stand and vice versa. Back in my younger days dad and I would go to car dealerships and just roam for what seem liked hours just looking at the selection of new and used and sometimes classics that might be there. I didn’t think about that time I spend with him back then but now when I look back I realized what a blast we had just being with each other. Happy father’s day to all the dads of this world.