The Sunday drive seems like a dying art. I see less and less of it, but when I do, it makes me happy.

A guy just drove down my street in a fabulous early 60s Speedster. Silver, top down, and brighter than the sun. His lady was in the passenger seat. They were tailed by two guys on two motorcycles. One looked like a 60s Moto Guzzi and the other like a 60s Norton, but it was hard to tell as I only got a quick look. Both riders wore vintage leathers and helmets. None of them were in a hurry; there was no rush to get to the bottom of the hill. Just a nice, stately jaunt to who knows where.

A few months ago, while driving to Home Depot on a Sunday afternoon, a guy and his friend were taking an excursion down the road in a stunningly immaculate Model-A, or Model-T, I'm not sure which. The one with the wooden wheels. You'll get nowhere fast in one of those, but that's exactly the point: it's a drive purely for the sake of the drive, the slow breeze winding through the open sides of the rumbling carriage, the early afternoon sun playing on the brilliant black piano laquer finish, the Indian horn somehow in tune with the handlebar moustache and driving gloves of the driver.

One Sunday in August, while driving down the highway in Arkansas, Robert and I passed a convoy of older gentlemen taking their wives out for a midday drive. No car was newer than 1965 or so, all sterling examples of some of the finest American cars I've ever seen; windows down, in no hurry, probably not going faster than 55. It was a wonderful, reassuring sight. The mint green fenders, bronze cowlings, creamy pink curves, resplendent in chrome, shimmering down the highway, the throaty chorus of lazy V8 engines anchoring one car to the next, piloted by men with white hair and driving caps.

It actually made me look forward to being old, and retired, with a nice car and beautiful wife, with nothing better to do than enjoy a calm, sunny afternoon in a beautiful car together.

I've got the car. Now I just need the years and the wife.