In my eyes, cars aren't just machines, they're a window to another era.
They're proof that the most important parts of life, the hard parts and the beautiful parts,
always have a story to tell.
I think I've had a pretty difficult time with moving on with my life, I gotta be honest.
I don't remember the last time my family sat down for dinner.
I dream of a world where my father was still around, where we were still discussing who's
the greatest rock band of all time, around the table, with everyone in attendance, enjoying
a well-cooked meal.
This is only a dream.
My father is gone, and I think I'm okay with knowing that.
In order to move forward, I need to remember my father, but also stay strong and stay
focused on my goals.
I have goals now, and I shouldn't give up on them.
My father absolutely loved his Toyota Celica Supra, and was heartbroken when it got stolen.
While working in Los Angeles, a group of douchebags took my father's child.
At the time, he didn't have my brother, sister, or I, and for many men, we love our cars.
We love our cars just as much as we love a child, I guess.
We care for them, we feed them in terms of fuel, we make sure they're still running
and set on their path, and that's what my father later did for me.
At the time, the Celica Supra was a beast, and even though it was a Japanese car, it still
had many characteristics of American muscle.
The Celica Supra had a beautiful in-mind six, which produced a whopping 161 horsepower, with
about 169 pounds of torque.
That number might not look as impressive today, but back in its glory days, the Celica
Supra was equipped with nice-looking pop-up headlights as well, a feature that my father
loved, and it had that nice, clean, root-beer-brown paint job that my father always told me you
will never see again on a car.
I wish we could paint cars on colors like root-beer-brown, but instead we just do matte gray or black.
Not too often do you see cars like that, with pop-up headlights, nice beefy engines,
slick color, in a car that really means a lot.
The thieves who ripped my father's car away took it to a chop shop, and in just
a few hours, the car was returned in that exact spot where they got it from.
However, it was completely stripped and gutted and left parked on a pile of bricks.
Every time my father would tell me a fond memory about his Celica Supra, I got a sense of sadness.
For him, every time he mentioned the vehicle, he thought of how it was taken from him.
Yet my father was still able to share those memories with me, and I have been able
to learn a side of my father that I think I wouldn't have unless he was able to share
those memories.
The reason why I got thinking about this is because as I battle with my recovery
after losing my father, I've learned that there is beauty in remembering his life.
As long as I'm able to remember, I will be able to move on.
And even if those memories are bad and might cause me to cry, they're good memories to
have.
What I'm trying to ultimately say is that even bad memories are important, but they
cannot hold you back.
I miss my father more and more every day, and I cherish every memory, good and bad,
so that I never forget him.
I don't want to forget my father.
He has inspired me in so many ways.
I cherish his memory so that the world can know about his inspiring life.
Without my dad, I would have never fallen in love with surfing.
It took me a while to get into surfing the way I think he wanted me to.
He grew up in San Diego and surfed for most of his teenage years and young adult life.
And we had surfboards up in San Francisco, but I just never touched them.
I once was scared of the ocean, sharks, and the deep blue, and then during COVID
I was able to kind of have some time to try new things.
And my neighbor Drew was just getting into surfing, and thankfully my dad had all the
gear, wetsuits, surfboards, some wax, and I got in the water.
And since my first time getting in the water on a surfboard, I haven't stopped.
And even while I'm in Texas, I haven't stopped thinking about surfing.
And that is all because of my father.
I would say it has been hard to motivate myself.
I'm trying to finish up with school while also having fun, continuing my hobbies
and passions, and honestly getting up out of bed every morning has been difficult
without such a great support system.
That was my father.
And I think my best way of holding on to those lessons and moments
where he taught me so much is to remember him.
My father eventually moved on from his grief and he purchased a 1987 Toyota Land Cruiser.
As you can see, he was a Toyota fan.
And the Land Cruiser is the car I remember, like the back of my hand.
Memories are valuable, whether they're good or bad.
And if you are someone going through the aftermath of losing someone close,
learn from my experience, learn how being able to remember will help you remember
where your life was heading before then.
And for me, the big goal is getting back on track and kind of finding myself
before kind of this dramatic event in my life.
Join me on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you do your podcast listening
as we navigate the miles remembered where vintage details feels timeless memories.
About this episode
Cars serve as a poignant reminder of the past, as shared through personal stories of loss and memory. The host reflects on his father's love for his Toyota Celica Supra, which was stolen and returned in a gutted state, symbolizing the bittersweet nature of memories. The episode explores themes of grief, nostalgia, and the importance of cherishing both good and bad memories. It also touches on how the host found solace in surfing, a passion inspired by his father's legacy, while navigating life after loss.
In this episode of Miles Remembered, we spotlight a car that left a lasting mark on my dad’s life and mine. My father once owned a 1985 root-beer-brown Toyota Celica Supra with iconic pop-up headlights, a car he loved deeply… until it was stolen in Los Angeles and returned just hours later, stripped bare and left on bricks.
But this story isn’t really about the theft. It’s about the years of memories wrapped up in that Supra, and how my father’s ability to share both the joy and the heartbreak helps me stay connected to him. Through his stories, I’ve learned that preserving even the painful memories can bring comfort, clarity, and love.
As much as I wish my dad were still here, revisiting the moments we shared and the car he adored reminds me why remembering matters.
A stolen Supra. A cherished past. A bond that outlives the miles. Join me as I honor the memories that keep us moving forward.
