Sandpoint, ID

I must be getting old.
There was a time when engine displacement was measured in cubic inches, rather than sissified “cc’s.” There was a time when people understood what you meant when you tossed random, big numbers around in idle conversation—383, 427, 440 Mag, Boss 302, 454, etc.
I thought those times were gone forever until two weekends ago, when Sandpoint, Idaho, rolled out its 23rd annual “Lost in the 50’s” celebration. It all started on Thursday evening with a rock ‘n’ roll show at the Panida Theater (only 550 seats, and they do sell out!). At 6 pm on Friday, things really cranked up with a boisterous, vintage car parade; the pavement was barely cleared of mint machinery before the street dance started hopping (DJ-hosted and FREE). All day Saturday, the cars that participated in the parade were displayed along the curbs of Sandpoint’s arterial routes; the usual cacophony of traffic winding its way through town along Highway 95 was rerouted. Saturday evening, Bonner County Fairgrounds sponsored another dance and show featuring live performers. Sunday morning saw the wrap-up, with the zany Aspirin Rally-Run, the 5K Run, and a final Car Rally.
On Saturday, as Tonya, Nichole and I wandered along the streets of this cozy Panhandle town, I got washed away in memories: Gary Puckett and the Union Gap (“This Girl is a Woman Now”; “Lady, Willpower”); Little Peggy March (“I Will Follow Him”), looking great and proving that she can still slay a crowd; the roar of large-block engines; the smell of finely-tuned exhaust. Hundreds of people, all getting sunburned and toasted (not necessarily the same thing) roamed about; plum blossoms shimmered against purple leaves; snow lingered on the mountains; geese honked from nearby Lake Pend Oreille…

…and three hundred old cars, from wooden-wheelers to heavy metal to real muscle, hunkered along the main drag. Sandpoint’s avenues had been given over to nostalgia.
I was drawn in by the discourses of men and women who spoke in reverent tones over the gleam of polished chrome and the glow of burnished paint. These folks knew what it meant to bark a knuckle, to get grit in their eye, to wrestle a transmission into place. Their words wrapped around the laughter of children in strollers and the chatter of adults in sandals. Local vendors, retailers, and restaurateurs pulled lawn chairs onto the sidewalks so they wouldn’t miss any of the fun.
Everyone was having a good time, whether they knew cars or not.

I regaled Nich about the ’56 Olds 88 I had in high school; with a 326 cubic-inch mill, it could cruise over to Lake of the Woods at 105 mph without even getting twitchy. I told her tales about the ’67 Mustang that I kept on the road through my second year of college. I tantalized her with stories of felonious speed: my brother’s 350 Rally Nova; my sleeper Dodge pickup with the 383, the beefed-up rear-end, and those tuned headers (such sweet music!). I bored her with lies about Super-Bees and Mach 1’s and Hemi ‘Cudas and GTO’s (“goats”). And I pushed her 16-year-old mind to the edge of belief with claims of 40-cents-per-gallon gasoline.
In spite of the aromas drifting around from a dozen good eateries nearby (reminding us that we hadn’t eaten all day) it was nearly impossible to drag me away from that lost era. My immersion was so complete that I was oblivious to nearly everything else. Indeed, when we finally got home, Tonya and Nichole both remarked that there had been a number of ladies in the throng who were less than concerned about protecting their, ummm, delicate parts from the sun.
“Must’ve missed that,” I mumbled. “But did you see those CARS?”