The Grand National Roadster Show

The Grand National Roadster Show

The first time I walked into the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, something in my brain short-circuited. It was a gut-punch—a shift in the way I saw the world. Duchamp’s Bicycle Wheel, Brancusi’s Bird in Space, Monet’s Water Lilies—all of it hit me in a way that words never could. I was young, but the impact was almost physical, like some kind of art-induced chemical reaction. It stuck with me.

Years later, I found myself in the Louvre, wandering the Denon Wing, surrounded by the ghosts of 19th-century masters. Canvas after canvas, brushstrokes frozen in time, history whispering from every wall. My feet hurt… and I was bored. Nothing grabbed me the way modern art in NYC had. I respected it, I understood the talent and sacrifice—but it didn’t move me.

Back in Oklahoma, I felt like a philistine. Maybe I was just too dumb for “real” art? I fucking hate feeling uneducated. So, I took an art history class, thinking education would bridge the gap. It didn’t. What it did do, however, was confirm something important: perspective is not negotiable. You can study, you can learn, you can acknowledge greatness—but you can’t force yourself to feel something that just isn’t there.

That thought hit me again this weekend as I watched the Grand National Roadster Show unfold from afar. Every car in the running was a masterpiece—machines so meticulously crafted that only a lunatic or a jealous hack could deny their brilliance. These weren’t just cars; they were art. That’s not an opinion. That’s fact.

But here’s the thing—I don’t feel it. Not the way I probably should. Not like I do when I stumble across some old, casual hot rod Ford that still carries the scent of bad decisions and road rash. I can respect these flawless show cars, admire the craftsmanship, the sweat, the sheer will it takes to build them—but they don’t speak my language. And that’s not a dig at them. That’s just me.

You might feel differently. Hell, I hope you do. Because the world needs people who see magic in perfection just as much as it needs those of us who find it in the rough edges. And I’m damn glad the GNRS still exists—for you, for them, for all of us.

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