The fog hasn’t yet lifted on the Monterey Peninsula and I’m standing around what has affectionately been temporarily renamed “Goose Shit Park.” A collection of rusted out, Bondo bodied, barely running cars are still rolling in past our picnic table to find their allocated spot amongst the eight classes of amazingly terrible cars. Welcome to the palate cleanser of Pebble Beach, the Concours d’LeMons.
I’m handed a clipboard and a yellow pass that says Judgin’ on it, and hang it around my neck. I’ve enthusiastically volunteered to judge the Swedish Meatball class since I personally am the proud owner of a $1600 1987 Volvo 240 DL station wagon. I know what it is to drive a car that everyone else thinks is a hunk of junk. I know what it is to fall in love with something that very few people want, let alone find appealing, and I absolutely cannot wait to head out into the field and talk to others just like me.
