About Bee Yew

I've had a nearly four-decade love affair with cars. It wasn't sparked by the taste of the family Volvo 240's front-seat headrest that I'd taken a bite out of as a kid—sorry, Dad! (I can still remember the warm-PVC tang, with notes of adhesive and poor judgment.) It really began a few years later after I watched Stephen King's Christine. I wanted an old Plymouth so badly. Dad's stories about a particular black-on-tan Porsche 911 helped redirect that enthusiasm toward European cars.

My 16th birthday couldn't come fast enough, and I began learning to drive immediately in our '87 Subaru GL wagon. It was soft, lazy, and disconnected, with controls that seemed to send requests rather than commands. Some time later, Dad finally let me drive our '83 Rabbit.

I'll never forget it.

It was a completely different world from the Subaru. It felt so analog, as though every microscopic movement of every control had a purpose, a corresponding sound, and an immediate effect. It felt not as if I'd sat in it, but rather had donned it.

That was the moment the obsession really took hold. Christine and all of her muscley peers faded into the background. Many years and more than 50 cars later—all but three German, and most of those Volkswagens—I've also developed a real appreciation for American muscle and British motoring.

I'm thankful I watched Christine instead of Flashdance. Otherwise, I might now own 50 shades of pastel leg warmers and be writing about big hair, shoulder pads, and fingerless gloves.