If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
I had gotten in late after joining some friends for some evening porch beers. A very drunk frat guy was standing across the street talking loudly on his phone. I woke up about four or five hours later to him screaming angrily into his phone, still out there, still very drunk, only with more empty beer bottles littering the steps next to him. One of our neighbors went out and confronted him and the loud frat guy went back inside without any further issue. I thought I’d finally get back to sleep, but then it started. The roaring of massive, ancient engines. It was absurdly loud and right outside my bedroom window. This could have been the start to a very bad day, one where grumpiness and ill will toward my fellow humans consumed me. I rolled over, looked out the window and saw something incredible: a line of hot rods, muscle cars, and vintage coupes, roadsters, and other rare, pristinely restored vehicles as far as I could see. And their excited owners stepped out as they reached maximum capacity on the road. It was the beginning of Beatersville.
I headed out with coffee and a camera and chatted with owners, snapped some photos of the vehicles, and looked around in amazement of all the details, all the products of time, money, and labor. What began as an irritating way to wake up became a pretty awesome morning. I had been to Beatersville a few years ago and loved it, but I actually enjoyed this a lot more because I got to see the vehicles moving, hear their roaring engines, and see the excitement leading into the car show.
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