In a totally surprise move, my dad is selling the prize-winning car he has worked on for twenty years. The eBay listing reads like a gruff, sad farewell.
My dad is a bit of a horse-trader of cars — once, when he was selling a lovely red chopped and slammed ’39 Chevy (if I remember correctly), the buyers asked my sisters and me if we’d miss the car. We shrugged. Cars came and went almost yearly. The Espada did not. It is largely responsible for my being a “hot-rod orphan” all those years. In price, it is probably going to reach the equivalent of a year of my undergraduate education shortly, or possibly pass that mark. (No, no, wait — it hasn’t even made reserve yet… this should be a long one.) It really was a hell of a car — Dad ran it on rocket fuel, when he ran it at all. I believe it was the car we were doing over-the-speed-limit in one dark night in La Canada when Dad slammed on the brakes without warning, then pointed out there was a mouse crossing the road. Good eye, Dad. Goodbye, Espada.