My brothers and I grew up first riding mini-bikes and then graduating to larger dirt-bikes and small-displacement street bikes. The family spent many weekends camping during my childhood, and, while our parents played cribbage, we could be found in the weeds and cow pies disturbing the peace, racing around and trailblazing while being chased by our dog, who seemed to have a limitless capacity for running. Dad would much later quip about our time in the woods, It was great. You guys would disappear, and we wouldn’t see you except when you were hungry or out of gas. The smell of hot mud on an exhaust pipe became as familiar to me as that of a newly‐laundered pillowcase. I could skillfully siphon fuel from one bike to another by sucking on a hose, and, although brother John developed far better skills as a mechanic, I learned to not be afraid of working on mechanical things through spending time helping care for boy‐scaled engines. As John says today, If I can figure out how to take it apart, I know someone has already figured out how to put it together, and there is probably a YouTube video for it. I was a studious, musical kid, quite devoted to scouting and swimming, with a multitude of hobbies, but motorcycles are the least attenuated of my boyhood interests that have endured. A friend and I visited the LeMay Museum (America’s Car Museum) in Tacoma yesterday, and, even though the security guard had to ask me to stop humping the Corvettes, it was the lineup of Honda Z‐50 mini‐bikes that elicited my most ardent response to the offerings of the museum: as if I were being reunited with a childhood friend.

I am a thoroughgoing museum guy. I may not be able to draw a circle, but I will contentedly spend hours admiring works of those who can when on exhibit in a museum. Own a codex and want to endow its display? Are artifacts from your parish history in your care? Do you have one of the most complete and well‐preserved Tyrannosaurus rex skulls in the world? Is your Lockheed A‐12 on view for the public? Are there placards mounted on the wall? Are you Harold and Nancy LeMay with one of the largest privately owned collections of automobiles, other vehicles and related memorabilia in the world, a curated fraction of which may be seen in a 165,000‐square‐foot facility?

Not long after my wife and I purchased our DeVille, Cadillac introduced a concept model named Ciel: a convertible sedan with rear‐hinged back doors (commonly called suicide doors). I began instantly to fret over which kidney I would have to sell in order to be able to afford a Ciel when the first shipment arrived at our local dealership. It was a choice I never had to make, and our cream puff DTS remains in our garage today to keep the wreath and crest near at hand. Imagine my delight when the Ciel concept model was front and center near the LeMay Museum entrance. I had no foreknowledge that I would encounter it, and it was brilliant: massive, ridiculous, gorgeous, unmistakably Cadillac. I still want one.

Beyond the museum entrance, we spent a felicitous afternoon lost in its many rooms of vehicles of all types and ages, some displayed in dioramas, others in rows by model year, and yet more on belvederes and alcoves. Two apostles off‐leash in a building full of museum‐worthy cars on a wet December day? Are you kidding? It was boffo. There was even a café on a mezzanine that we did not fail to notice and that served a good burger and fries. The LeMay collection is much larger than featured in this location; yet more of the collection may be seen not too far away at the former Marymount Military Academy in Parkland, which I have not yet visited, meaning, of course, I now must place it on my list of museums to explore. Perhaps there I will chance upon yet more old friends.