It’s funny how time changes our dreams.
Forty-five years ago, I thought this car was the epitome of American vehicles. In reality, it was the Mercury knockoff of maybe the worst version of the Ford Mustang ever.
My dad told me I could have this red two-door when I got my license, and I thought about that “someday” regularly. This was the car my dad took my sister and me to do doughnuts in Chattanooga intersections, when snow shut down the city—to show off our Buffalo heritage and bravery to house-bound Southerners. This was the car from which I saw a shooting star and wished for a brother while bundled up in blankets in the hatchback trunk. My dad wheeled and dealed used cars while we lived in Tennessee, but this one stayed in our driveway for years—even as the address of our driveway changed.
Several years after this photo was snapped, though, my dad sold this promise to a missionary friend for a dollar. Jesus needed a shiny, red Capri more than I did.
I’m not bitter. It all worked out. I learned to drive in a car I liked even more—the 1978 version of one I’ve Googled to see what it would cost to ship from Japan. And for the last 21 years, I’ve had a supercharged MINI Cooper in my driveway or garage—and on more winding roads than I can count.
1981 Ryan had no imagination that someday I’d drive rally, Indy, and Formula 2000 race cars—or drift at ice racing school on a frozen lake. Reagan-era Ryan didn’t even know what a Nissan GT-R or Lamborghini was and, thus, couldn’t have dreamed of driving them as I did with Timmy and Mitch. Every vintage of me would’ve been—and still is—blown away that I starred in a unique car commercial with a stunt driving body double.
My life is so much more exciting than I ever dreamed it would be. As a result, my imagination has rarely been bigger than my potential. It hasn’t needed to be. Fate, Chance, or Sovereignty has allowed my muscles of hope to atrophy.
Someday, I’ll probably look back on pictures of 2026 me and think, “Man. If that dude only knew.” And I’m kinda glad I don’t know yet. That ignorance will hopefully let me show up with more wonder and less entitlement—and a healthy sense that the world is so much bigger than I can ever know.
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