Friday night in Minnesota. The sky is clear, temperature about 80 degrees. Absolutely beautiful weather. Even better, the mosquitoes haven’t hatched yet, giving an evening free of buzzing, biting, and welts.

A group of my friends and I got together, destination unknown, time unheeded. Eventually we ended up on University Avenue in St. Paul. We were not alone: thousands of people young and old converged on the street. Porky’s Drive In was the central gathering spot, but the throngs extended several blocks in either direction. Resonating through the hearts and souls of all present was a love of cars. Cars everywhere, mingling with the masses. Old cars, new cars – show cars, go cars. The marques – Ferrari, Porsche, DeLoarian, Chevy, Ford – became one with the buzzwords – big block, supercharger, nitrous oxide. The sweet smell of exhaust wafted by, periodically garnished by the odor of burnt rubber. Hot Rods, ‘Stangs, and imports cruised up and down the street, which led to the occasional stoplight skirmish. Not to be outdone, the motorcycle comminity made a strong showing, arriving with speed and style on their cruisers and crotch rockets. We were lost in the crowd yet accepted like family. Everyone was happy to be there, happy to be living life. There was a youthful exuberance in the air — an innocence, a reminder of simpler times, days of yore. This was perfection, the acme of existence. This was America.

Eventually we departed, but not before making plans to reconvene the following morning. Destination: the quarter-mile track in Rock Falls, Wisconsin.