It just sort of happened, I guess. One day, I’m 16 and handed the keys to a car I’d bought with my money, eventually—what, did your parents charge interest?—a 1990 Volvo 740 Turbo. The next, I’m 32 and that same car is sitting, accumulating all sorts of awful in a barn of sort a few kilometers away. One day it’ll be Gatebil-worthy.
My other has been in the family for some form or another for more than 30 years. It’s a ’73 Porsche 914 2.0-litre that’s done more sitting in that time than the cast of Good Morning America, but I figure this is the year it’ll get driven a lot or cast away.
I’m not sure if I consider either ownership history to be an achievement, it just sort of happened that their keys are still around here, somewhere. What’s your take on holding onto a machine for a long time?
Photography by Afshin Behnia, Amy Shore, Jack Olsen, & Mike Cassidy