Chris CastruitaGrowing up in California, one truth was consistent: classic cars hit. No matter what you looked like, if you had a dope whip, guys would appreciate your baby. If it was clean enough to take to a car show, you were next level. That’s what I thought of when my oldest and brownest friend hit me up to check out cars and get some coffee early Saturday morning.
He picked me up at 6 a.m., and we cruised towards the beach to a packed Ace Hardware parking lot in Huntington Beach; the one with the donut shop on the corner. The air was fresh and cool, and about 100 chrome-on-classic German and American made masterpieces glistened in the golden light of dawn. Color sprinkled around the parking lot, pony cars and bugs. We were in HB, but us brown guys weren’t odd men out. We were part of the scene. Car guys don’t have divides based on race. Nope. The divides exist around what car you drive: truck or muscle, German or American. And that’s just being tribal for fun.
Every city has guys that appreciate polished rims and powerful engines. Sexy lines, details dressed in pinstripes. Most car guys I meet are camera shy, but those that come to the meets are friendly and open to talk about the work they’ve done to restore these golden age chariots. A lot of times we find ourselves just enjoying the silence. Peace.
