My love of cars did not begin with the Hellcat.
It started long before horsepower meant anything to me, before I understood engines, transmissions, or why adults got so emotional about torque. I was just a little girl who loved cars. I wanted to know how they worked. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to learn how to take care of my own car, change my own wipers, and someday drive a manual transmission without launching myself into a mailbox.
I was the little girl who got excited about Knight Rider and could not wait to have my picture taken with KITT. I think I was four or five years old, standing next to that car like I had just met a celebrity. Honestly, I had.
I was also the little girl who wanted to restore my mom’s old ’64 Valiant. I would sit in that car, even with the rusted-out floorboards, and dream about what she could become. Most people probably saw an old car with a hole in the bottom. I saw possibility, personality, and a very questionable tetanus risk.
And apparently, I never really grew out of it.
I am still the woman whose head turns when an American muscle car goes by. I am still the woman who could barely contain herself when my future husband asked if I wanted to go for a ride in his Z28 Camaro. I did not just say yes. I spiritually teleported into that passenger seat.
So, by the time I saw that Challenger on Highway 76, I was not discovering something new about myself.
I was recognizing something that had been there all along.
I remember the exact moment I fell in love with my car.
I was driving on Highway 76 toward Greeley when I pulled up next to a beautiful car that made me lose all sense of safety, manners, and basic highway etiquette. I rolled down my window at 65 miles per hour and yelled across traffic, “WHAT KIND OF CAR IS THAT?”
Yes. Totally scary. Completely unsafe. Not recommended by any driving instructor, insurance company, or person with common sense.
But I couldn’t help myself.
It was a Challenger, and from that moment on, the Dodge Challenger became my favorite car.
Then, in 2016, the Hellcat came out, and I drooled all over again. I wanted one so badly, but there was one very important problem: it did not come in Plum Crazy Purple. The Demon did, but the Hellcat did not.
Now, yes, I know I could have bought one and had it painted purple, but for me, that just wasn’t the same. It needed to be born purple. Factory purple. Officially purple. Purple with papers.
I also couldn’t bring myself to be okay with the Demon because I was hung up on the name. Yes, I realize now that being fine with “Hellcat” but uncomfortable with “Demon” may not have been my clearest theological or logical moment. Apparently, “Hell-Cat” felt neutral to me at the time. Growth is a journey.
Besides, I knew I would never be able to afford one anyway. And even if some huge miracle happened and I could afford one, I told myself I would never spend money on something that wildly irresponsible.
I was going to be reasonable.
Responsible.
Practical.
Boring.
Fast forward to last year, when my husband came to me and said, “I’ve been thinking about getting you a Challenger.”
I was blown away.
After several conversations, a lot of research, and probably more browser tabs than any marriage should have to endure, we found the one. And I do mean THE ONE.
A Hellcat. Plum Crazy Purple. Narrow body. 2023. Last Call. Jailbreak. Sunroof. Manual transmission.
This baby did not just show up in my life. She landed in it like a purple thunderbolt from the irresponsible-but-glorious heavens.
The day she arrived, I barely slept. I had a doctor’s appointment with my surgeon that day, and I had been praying she would show up in time for me to drive her there. I had been tracking the transport like a woman awaiting the arrival of royalty, or concert tickets, or biopsy results.
And then, right on time, she showed up.
I jumped in, full of confidence and excitement.
And stalled her.
Then I stalled her again.
Nothing says “new sports car owner” quite like sitting in your dream car while it repeatedly reminds you that she has standards.
She was temperamental from the start, but it was instant love.
Over the next few days, I stalled her at least once a day. Very humbling. Very comedic. Very much part of the process of learning how to drive a car that clearly has opinions, boundaries, and a flair for public embarrassment.
Now it has been a few months, one ticket, and a whole lot of attention I was not expecting.
I have gotten thumbs up, revving engines, challenges to race, and one guy who said he might trade me his Demon for my car “if he gets drunk enough.” I have also received a few obscene gestures from very young “boys” who apparently had feelings they did not know how to process.
The most recent encounter happened at the car wash, where I have a monthly subscription so I can clean my car anytime I want—during business hours, because even obsession has limits.
I pulled up, and the guy working there immediately started drooling over my car. He loved the color. He said it was a nice car. Then he looked at it again and said, “That’s a lot of car.”
Then he added, “You know, you don’t see a lot of women with Hellcats and manuals.”
I paused for a second.
Then I said, “Well, I am not a lot of women.”
My husband was on the car speaker, so I said, “Right, honey?”
Without hesitation, he replied, “That’s right.”
The car wash guy nodded and said, “I hear that.”
And with that, he let me proceed into the wash like the Plum Crazy queen I apparently am.
It was not meant to sound arrogant. It was just the truth in that moment.
I am not a lot of women.
I am a woman who waited years for a Plum Crazy Purple manual Hellcat, stalled it repeatedly, got humbled by it daily, and still grins every time I hear it start.
She is excessive. She is impractical. She is loud. She gets attention. She costs more than a reasonable person would like to admit, and she has already helped me contribute financially to local traffic enforcement.
But every time I sit behind the wheel, I remember the woman on Highway 76 who rolled down her window at 65 miles per hour just to ask a stranger what kind of car they were driving.
That woman knew.
She didn’t know when.
She didn’t know how.
She definitely didn’t know how many times she would stall.
But she knew.
