It was the summer of 1993 in Snow Camp, North Carolina. I was 16, full of nerves and excitement as I gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel of my cousin’s white C5 Corvette. The car sat low, aggressive, and ready to roar. I had driven before, but nothing like this. This was power. This was speed. This was a Corvette!

With a deep breath, I thought I eased onto the gas. The engine growled—a deep, hungry sound that sent a rush through my body. I felt like I was holding back a beast on a leash. The moment my foot got a little too eager on the throttle, the rear tires broke loose. The car fishtailed for a split second, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. My heart pounded in shock, but I quickly corrected, laughing as adrenaline flooded my veins. My cousin just shook his head, grinning.

That day, I understood the thrill of raw horsepower. The Corvette wasn’t just a car—it was an experience, a feeling, a memory that never faded.

Now, 31 years later, I sit behind the wheel of my own Corvette—a sleek C8, mid-engined and modern, yet still carrying that same untamed spirit. The boy in Snow Camp never left; he just finally got his own set of keys.