I’ve been to plenty of classic car museums, and admired the occasional eye-catcher in the parking lot at the Wal-Mart, but nothing can top what I saw Saturday, August 16 on Woodward Avenue in suburban Detroit.  The 14th Annual Woodward Dream Cruise stretched from Pontiac sixteen miles down to Ferndale.

There were plenty of classic cars to admire, but they weren’t just limited to a parking lot, side road, or park.  Owners got in these cars and showcased them in their full glory by celebrating a long-gone tradition, taking a casual drive down the strip and back again, where numerous bystanders cheered and watched with wide-eyed fascination.  My husband called it the world’s largest “planned traffic jam.”  I called it a marvel of Americana.   

This was the first time my family and I attended the Cruise. By luck, we had come to town for another event.  Now I wonder how a classic car enthusiast like myself could have missed this before.  Approximately 40,000 classic cars were proudly displayed by their owners during the one-day event, attracting an estimated 1.5 million visitors, the largest such classic car gathering in the US.  These aren’t rare cars kept behind a rope in a building, never to see the open road again.  These are the common man’s cars, ones that have earned their honored spot in the family garage, ones that are shown with pride on the open road on Sunday afternoons, ones that give their owners the same love with an engine roar that they get with a fresh coat of wax.    

Woodward Avenue has long been synonymous with cruising.  The true spirit of the Dream Cruise represents the long-gone eras of the 1950s and 60s, when lives weren’t dominated by video games, social networking on the web, and 200 cable channels.  Friday and Saturday nights were reserved specifically for cruising.  Hanging out on Woodward Avenue wasn’t just showing off one’s own wheels, but watching and appreciating what others had to offer.  Everyone shared a passion for the American car and everything it represented.  Legend has it that back in the 60s, even the big three US automakers would test their new muscle car offerings on Woodward Avenue. 

We talked with several owners, who sat in their lawn chairs close by with the hoods of their pride and joy popped to show off the sparkling and powerful engines, the windows down to display the gleaming interiors, and the owners themselves beaming for each passerby who stopped to ogle over their little piece of American history.  Each one had a different story as to how they came to possess the car, what they’ve done through the years to keep it in glorious condition, and how special that vehicle was in their hearts.  They came from all over; I saw license plates from places like Tennessee, Florida, Illinois, Texas, and even California, all coming from long distances for one day just to share a common love with over a million others.  My trek from Ohio didn’t seem so bad.