Some stories stay with you not because of where they took you, but because of who you were when they happened. This one begins in 1980, between my junior and senior years of college, when I was far from home—out west in Washington State—working as an intern for Weyerhaeuser. I was learning about forests, mills, and corporate life, but somewhere between the Pacific Northwest rain and those long internship days, another thought crept in: Someday soon, I’m going to need a car.

I still had a year of college left, but I was already thinking ahead to life after graduation. That’s when a plan came together—one that only works when you have a mom who trusts you. The idea was simple: she would buy the car outright, drive it for a year, and once I landed a full-time job, I’d pay her back every dollar. No interest. No strings. Just trust. And remarkably, that’s exactly how it played out. During that summer, I researched a number of different makes and models, e.g. Chevy Corvette, Datsun 280Z, Triumph TR8. Each one had pros and cons but the car I became obsessed with was the Mazda RX-7. I had to have THAT car.

When I returned home from Washington, one of the very first things we did was go pick up the car. I had already ordered it while out west, and it was waiting for us. A brand-new 1980 Mazda RX-7. I still remember standing in the parking lot at LaCrescent, WI, staring at it, thinking it looked like it was going 100 miles an hour just sitting still. The lines were sharp, the stance was low, and for that era, it was a seriously good-looking sports car. It felt like I was in heaven.

It wasn’t just about looks. This thing had a five-speed manual on the floor and a rotary engine - something of a novelty at the time. That engine looked small under the hood, but it packed an impressive amount of horsepower for its size. It had giddy-up. Real giddy-up. The kind that made driving feel less like transportation and more like an event.

Back in New Lisbon, WI, the RX-7 turned heads immediately. People just weren’t used to seeing something like that roll through a small town. And yes—both men and women noticed. What may have drawn even more attention was the fact that my mom, in her 50s at the time, drove it to work at the elementary school for that first year. You can imagine the looks she got pulling into the school parking lot in a sleek little sports car. I wish I would have worked on commission for the Mazda dealership because I felt I was personally responsible for 4 other people buying the same car.

I started taking my electives in my last year at Iowa State and one of the classes was Speech. I incorporated my passion for sports cars into one of my first assignments and I will forever remember the punch line that ended that speech to implore people to spend a little bit more and purchase a vehicle built for speed: “Remember, you can sleep in your car, but you can’t drive your house.” Brilliant, I thought at the time.

That RX-7 wasn’t just about speed or style. It was also about personalization. Early on, I decided the factory stereo wasn’t going to cut it. I ordered a Blaupunkt stereo from Crutchfield and recruited Tony for a weekend project back home. We tore apart the dash of a brand-new car, installed the stereo, replaced the rear speakers, and somehow got everything back together. I still remember wondering if I made the right decision when we were in mid-project with low voltage wires sticking out everywhere and metal & plastic being cut to modify the dash. That little car with that sound system? It was incredible. It even had a remote control if I didn't want to exert myself and extend my arm to reach the 12 inches to turn the knobs on the dash!

After I graduated in May of 1981 and started my permanent job at 3M, I officially bought the car from her and took it up to New Brighton, where I lived with my brother Dave for a couple of years. Dave had a Camaro, and since we worked in the same building, we carpooled often—switching off between his car and my RX-7. Not a bad arrangement.

I drove that RX-7 through about nine Minnesota winters, which says something about youth, optimism, and perhaps stubbornness. It was rear-wheel drive, which meant you learned quickly about traction—or the lack of it. Stop on an incline after a snowfall, and you might be there awhile. But you adapt. You learn how the car behaves. You respect it. I never had an accident.

And when the roads were dry and curvy? That’s where the RX-7 truly shined. It handled like a go-kart. There didn’t seem to be a corner you couldn’t take. It begged to be driven, not just steered. I learned to double-clutch, to feel the road, to enjoy driving in a way that modern cars rarely require anymore.

Of course, being in my early 20s, that car also saw plenty of nightlife. Bars, softball at Tartan Park, late nights, and trips to Ames, IA to see my friends, Phil, Beth, Kevin, and Tony who were still in school. And the occasional downside of owning something flashy—keyed doors, a broken antenna, and more than a few suspicious glances from police officers who noticed a sports car out a little too late.

I earned my share of speeding tickets. One day still stands out: two tickets within twenty minutes. One in Edina, another in New Brighton when I was driving home from a friend’s party. This was before computers tied everything together, but when I got pulled over the second time, I had the first ticket sitting on the passenger seat. I quickly crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor. The officer never saw it—but I wasn’t exactly smiling when I drove away but those curves were calling out to me to floor it.

By then, I was a young engineer with a good job, traveling often to Europe and Decatur, AL, cash in my wallet from expense advances, and a sense that life was opening up. The RX-7 matched that feeling perfectly. It wasn’t just a car—it was independence, momentum, and possibility wrapped in metal and rubber.

Being in your early 20s with a car like that felt like the world had quietly cracked open in your favor. You didn’t feel rich, but you felt capable. You had a good job, a reliable paycheck, a sense of direction—and a set of keys that unlocked more than just a driver’s door. Dating in those years carried a different kind of confidence. Pulling up in that RX-7 wasn’t about showing off as much as it was about possibility. It felt like proof that you were moving forward, that life was beginning to take shape, and that you belonged in the next chapter that was unfolding.

There’s a unique swagger that comes with youth—not arrogance, but optimism. You truly believe you’ve got life by the tail. Weekends stretch wide, mistakes feel temporary, and the road ahead seems long and forgiving. That little sports car wasn’t just transportation; it was freedom on four wheels, a companion for late nights, first dates, and spontaneous drives with no real destination. Looking back now, it’s clear that confidence didn’t come from the car itself—it came from being young, hopeful, and unaware of how quickly time moves. But for that moment, behind the wheel, it felt like anything was possible—and that feeling is something you never quite forget.

That car carried me through a formative chapter of life, when responsibility and freedom were learning how to coexist. I’ve owned other cars since—many of them objectively better—but none quite captured that moment in time the way the RX-7 did.

Some cars take you places.

That one helped define who I was becoming.