A couple of weeks before my father passed away the two of us were sitting looking out his front window when he saw a Miata in a neighbour's driveway. He asked me if I still liked small convertibles. I said, "I always will." He said forcefully that he wanted to get me one, that I wasn't getting any younger and why not now. It had been a while since I had seen him filled with such certainty but, after some of back and forths, we settled on the idea that the timing wasn't right for such an indulgence.
When Dad was gone, my mind kept going back to that moment with him, knowing how much he loved escaping to the country when he was first dating my mother and later when they had our family. Pictures of them in his 1948 Austin or on his motorcycle in Ireland, the initial series of second-hand cars we had when we first immigrated to Canada started me questioning my earlier decision. My son and I started to look for a car. After months of test driving MGs, Alfa Spiders and Triumphs, I was talked into looking at a 1998 Z3M. One test drive and I was a goner. I know Dad would have been thrilled.
My wife and I often retrace the country tours I had taken as a child. There isn't a drive goes by that I don't think about and thank Dad for his gift.