As my son and I stepped into the old warehouse I almost tripped over a bright red Ford Mustang and then a shiny, black 1967 Chevy Camero ran over my toes. It careened crazily on two wheels for a ways before crashing. I jumped back, startled as a green and white 1954 Ford Fairlane came right at me and then t the last minute darted between my legs before racing away.

Al the while my son was trying to get my attention by yelling at me and pulling on my shirt sleeve. I ignored him for a minute, savoring the taste of nostalgia as I tried to get a look at some of the other classic cars that raced by me.

Dad," my son yelled louder. "I think we're in the way of something here. Maybe we had better step back."

I turned to look at Gregory, my 13 year old son with a tall, ungainly body and a wild mop of hair that almost covered his eyes.

"What," I replied impatiently as he tugged at my sleeve again.

"Isn't it great to see all these classic cars here? They don't make them like this anymore."

Just then the angry yells of other teenage boys caught my attention.

"Get off the track, you idiot, you are going to wreck our cars."

I turned towards the voices, feeling angry about the lack of respect to elders the boys were showing. I was about to give them a piece of my mind when a gentleman about my age ran up, grabbed my arm and began pulling me backwards.

"You have to get out of here now, you're right in the middle of the track," the man sternly told me

He pointed down to the cement floor and I noticed for the first time that lines had been

painted on it.

"You can walk around all you like but stay between the lines," he instructed me.

"You cross these lines you wreck the barricades the kids have set up for their practice runs." The man then bent down and put several of the barricades back together.

I had been so excited about seeing all the vintage cars that I stumbled my way through them. That is why the remote controlled car had been running all over me.

I hastily obeyed the man's commands. This time standing squarely between the painted lines as I watched the cars for a few more minutes.

There were a dozen or so racing around the homemade track. They were remote controlled cars run by a bunch of enthusiasts who had gathered for their weekly races.

This was my first visit to the event which was held in an old vacant warehouse every Saturday afternoon.

The place was huge, probably five or six thousand square feet. Everything had been cleaned out so the race organizers had acres of fairly smooth concrete to use

Gregory was trying to talk to me and tugging on my sleeve again to get my attention.

"Over here dad, I can see some desks. Let's go and register so we can have a few practice runs before the races start."

Feeling subdued after the problems I caused with the barricades, I meekly followed my son over to the desks. The box containing my car was tucked securely under my arm. Gregory was also carrying his remote controlled car as we both intended to race today.

In fact, the race would be a grudge match between us because we had been arguing for months over who had the fastest car and who was the best driver.

He had gotten his model car months ago and at first I was a bit concerned about him spending his paper route money on such a frivolous thing but my wife however, disagreed and suggested I let him do what he wanted to do with his money.

"It's his money, let him spend at least some of it on what he wants. He has to learn money management someday," was her view of the matter I reluctantly agreed with her and Gregory began to spend hours tinkering away with his purchase in our basement. He first put the kit together and then taught himself how to operate the remote controls.

It was several weeks later when he took me into the basement to show off his car and his driving skills. The car was a black Dodge Demon, one of the original American muscle cars. I watched half heartily as he put the model through its paces. He soon had it tearing around the basement at a rather high rate of speed with only the odd crash.

This caught my interest and my fascination grew as I watched him perform and when my son handed me the remote I was hooked. The first few times I tried driving the car it ended up stuck between some cushions Gregory had placed along the cement walls to avoid wrecking his Demon when it crashed at a high rate of speed. More practice and I was able to handle the car a little better.

Even better than my son, I boasted to myself after a little more practice. That is how the feud between us began and it grew even worse after a particular bitter argument with Gregory over who was the better driver and therefore entitled to greater use of the car. After that I decided to buy one of my own.

The first free Saturday I had I went out and bought one of my own. It was a 1957 Chevrolet Belair and as I proudly showed it to my wife and son, I informed them that it was much faster than the Demon and with my superior driving skills I would run circles around it.

My son starred stone-faced at me as I explained that the Demon, with its dual tail pipes, over- sized pipes, very loud muffler and its huge drag slick tires was a pansy little stock car compared to my more conventionally equipped street car.

"Take a lesson from me son," as I carefully placed my blue and white two door hardtop on the basement floor and explained to him what a street car is.