My Dad loves cars. It’s as simple as that. When he was younger, he worked at an exotic car lot in Tucson, Arizona, selling Triumphs, MGs, Jags, and other British models. He’s always been partial to the boxiest, Britishest cars out there. Our garages have been home to spitfires, daytonas, and for a brief and unimaginable period, an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme (I’m still convinced that Dad didn’t really like that car, he just liked the name.)

    There are three boys in my family. None of them – not a single one – got Dad’s car genes. Sure, they like driving and have gotten their fair share of speeding tickets. But are they connoisseurs? Nope, they wouldn’t even qualify as fanatics. Heck, one of them doesn’t even like driving, so he turned his license back into the DMV.

    Then I was born. It took a female Lawver to carry on the tradition of oogling sports cars. I can spot certain makes and models from several hundred yards, in the dark, judging solely from the positioning of the headlights and – if I’m lucky – the sound of the engine. I have this compulsive reaction whenever I see a Z4. Before I know it, my eyes follow its curvaceous goodness and a very loud and excited “Oooooooo!” escapes my lips. If it’s the right color, watch out, I may just start babbling about “my baby” and not shut up.

    Then I had to go and get addicted to Ferraris. I saw one of those tonight, too. A gorgeous bright red 360 Modena pulling out of the mall parking lot. Mmmm, talk about perfection. The lines, the curves, the air intakes, the headlights, the wide contact patches created by those oh so gorgeous tires. It’s enough to make any girl melt.

    Well, okay, maybe not. Not every girl melts at the thought of sculpted metal married with perfection in engineering. I know I’m weird. I know I probably got a bit too much extra testosterone, which could explain all this lusting for a V8 engine, Pirelli tires, and a winding road free from speed restrictions. Whatever the cause, I love it. I’ve decided to embrace it. Yes, I’ll stand up and say, my name is Heather, and I’m addicted to automotive engineering.

    I’ve always known I liked cars. My favorite toy when I was a toddler was a big red plastic dashboard that sat over my lap in the carseat. It had a little black steering wheel, and I used to watch my Mother drive, mimicking her every move (all the while promising myself I’d go faster). At ten, my family moved to Tucson, Arizona, where I heard of the legendary Bondurant School of Driving in Phoenix. I swore that as soon as I could, I’d go there and learn how to whip around corners and fishtail to my heart’s content. At 17, I drove my first BMW, and I was hooked.

    But even after all this, I wasn’t entirely convinced how all-encompassing my love of driving has become. Last week, I rented the classic Steve McQueen movie ‘Le Mans.’ It pretty much covers the infamous 24-hour endurance Grand Prix race without much back story about the characters. Sure, the characters are there, but you know without being told that you’re supposed to root for Steve McQueen, and beyond that, all you care about are the cars. It’s 106 minutes of Ferraris, Porsches, curves, French countryside, and vroooooooooom. But, it took me closer to 150 minutes to watch… I kept rewinding it to watch certain stunts again. Yeah, I’m addicted.

    So what do I do about this? I think I’m going to make good on my nearly ten year old wish to go to the Bondurant School of Driving. I have a couple other plans and schemes up my sleeve, but I’ll save those for later. In the meantime, I have plenty to dream about, plenty of roads to cover, and plenty of cars to covet. If you need me, I’ll be over at Ferrari, my face pressed against the glass, my eyes fixed on that gorgeous prancing pony.