18-years-old, circa 1976, in my circa 1970 white MGB. The only car that ever got me laid, although it impoverished my late teenage years. I love the checkbook stuck in my shirt pocket. Clearly, I had just returned from the mechanic's shop where I had drained my accounts dry.
In the 1980's, my ride was a 1966 Daimler, which was always mistaken for a Jag, until I pointed out the "D" on the hubcaps.
It was a four season automobile. It impoverished me for a decade, until I sold it to a real estate broker in Sag Harbor who was as dumb as I was.
The steering wheel was on the right-hand side. I made some of my most memorable arrivals in that vehicle.
We inherited it in something of a goof from someone named Saypol (whatever you do, don't Google "Judge Saypol!") After a dinner party, my partner Ev symmetrically willed him his 1967 230 SL, but Saypol died first, so it was shipped over from Greece.
Ev was a handsome dog.