On a summer western New York evening
In the salubrious surroundings of the (nearly defunct) Olean Mall car park, aka parking lot, the strains of 1950s pop re-echoing, the scent of barbecuing burgers filling the warm air...
Olean's boy and gal racers congregated. Among their number, hubby. Can you spot his pride and joy?
Yes, there it is, the Volvo 1800S - as driven by Simon Templar, The Saint, no less. (Well one like it). Hubby even has the ST2 number plate.
Meanwhile the other drivers were exercising their imagination. Those long, all-in-one front seats must have been fun. And you could cram your large baby-boomer family in. No seat belts, no child seats, no problem. (Or possibly a lot of problems).
Now there's a beauty!
A British TR6 by golly!
Something a little more, shall we say, American?
Turn your back for a minute and the Volvo's already found a new friend.
Just love those little old touches.
There were no prizes, just a chance to talk cars with your friends and chew the fat, shoot the breeze and whatever else they call it.
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