The Car That Was Never Mine but Always Felt Like It Was

Yeah, it is rather sad, but that is how life works sometimes.

My dad worked for a big furniture company called Sealy. At some point, through persistence and timing, he convinced his boss to give him a company car. Like most leases, it ran on a three-year cycle. That detail mattered more to me than anyone could have known at the time.

That car was a 1987 Camaro Z28. Red and silver. Grey interior. Low. Loud. Perfect. It was a dream come true for a kid like me.

I washed that car before school. I washed it after school. If it rained, I washed it again. If a speck of dirt showed up, it was gone. That Camaro was spotless at all times. It was my pride and joy, even though it was never technically mine.

Back then, car culture was alive. Car meets. Late nights. Parking lots full of noise and bad ideas. Drag racing and street racing happened whether people like to admit it or not. Today, you would go to jail. Back then, you got stories.

And Yes, I Got Speeding Tickets

More than one. Still worth it.

Most nights were simple. Heading out with the boys. Sitting at McDonald’s parking lots, leaning against our cars, talking nonsense like it mattered. Cruising from Toronto to Brampton, then pushing further. Caledon. Wasaga Beach. Long stretches of highway and twisty roads where the drive mattered more than the destination.

There were no phones. No social media. No instant proof that it happened. We had Polaroids if someone remembered to bring one. That is why there are almost no photos left. Just fragments. Blurry memories. Sounds and smells that come back when you least expect them.

I still remember that when it rained in the summer. I would start up the air conditioner, and it had a musty smell to it. It disappeared after a few minutes, but the initial smell still lingers in my mind.

Honestly, That Might Be The Best Part

Those nights are burned into my memory in a way pictures could never do justice. The laughter. The stupidity. The freedom. The sense that nothing bad could touch us.

Then reality showed up. My dad was leaving the company. The car had to go back. The details of the buyout and the money side of it are fuzzy now. Time does that. What stood clear was the loss.

The Camaro Was Traded In

I ended up with a red Nissan pickup truck. Cheap. Basic. Five-speed manual. Red cap on the back. It did the job, but it had no soul. It was transportation, not a dream.

The worst part was the Nissan dealership. It was close to our house. Every time I drove by, I would see my old Camaro sitting there. Same car. Same stance. Same everything. I would stop and stare. More than once, I cried. I am not ashamed to say that.

At some point, I even saw the new owner at a gas station. Seeing someone else behind that wheel felt wrong, even though I knew it was never truly mine.

A Lasting Legacy

To this day, when I hear the word Camaro, my mind goes straight back to that 1987 Z28. Red and silver. Grey interior. The car that defined my teenage years.

Those memories are not about metal or horsepower. They are about freedom. About being young and reckless in a way that felt alive, not destructive. About nights that did not need documenting to be real. I wish I had more photos of that car. I really do.

And at the same time, I am glad I do not. Some things are better left untouched by timelines and feeds. Some memories are stronger because they live only in your head.

Good memories. Crazy memories. Fun memories.

That is what childhood and young adulthood should be about. And some cars never leave you, even when they were never yours to begin with.