Among the many milestones I reached in Iraq is one I have celebrated for more than a quarter century--my driver's license anniversary. On December 19, 1969, after a one-semester delay while my grades got better, I went to the Registry of Motor Vehicles office in Woburn, Mass., and there took and passed my driver's test.
I had already bought and sold my first car--a Black 1963 Dodge Dart and so did not have a car on that wonderful day. But my Dad let me drive his car--a 22-foot-long 1965 Chrysler New Yorker. I was in Heaven. I had wanted to drive as long as I could remember and the day finally came. With my license my obsession with cars moved from wanting cars to owning cars.
In three weeks I had a 1964 Opel Station wagon. A month later it was a 1963 Chrysler Newport. Back then I thought I liked working on cars, but really, all I wanted to do was drive. I wore cars out. I broke them. I am the same with bicycles, although with bikes I know I do not want to work on them. I just want to ride.