I have been a collector since I can remember. At the age of 6, I had amassed a collection of Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars that would make eBay green with envy. By the time I hit junior high, I had five or six BMX race bikes, and when I hit the 11th grade I had a Vespa, two Lambrettas, a couple of VW bugs, and a VW Bus. The collector bug was in full swing when I split college. Piled in my parents garage and driveway were two Harleys and a few assorted trucks, hot rods, and customs in various states of disrepair. And the collection hasn’t ever ceased to this date some 30-plus years later.
I have never seen any of the aforementioned things as junk or treasure; they are just a means to trade or sell to get to the next level. For me, the thrill is in the chase, and I never really knew that growing up. It took me a long time to deduce the fact that it’s not the vehicle, it’s searching out the next big score that gets my blood running.
As of late, the sickness seems to be getting worse. Now that I am an adult and have the facilities to take a cross-country (or even out-of-country) trip to get my next two- or four-wheeled fix doesn’t bother me a bit, whereas it was the greatest hurdle before. I also notice that I don’t get rid of as much stuff as I used to either, so the sheer size of my collection is expanding exponentially.
Case in point, as I write this I have four classic pickups strewn about my yard, a ’59 T-Bird, five Harleys, and a ton of vintage bicycles in the garage as well as all the subsequent take-off parts piled up on the side of my house.
My wife, who has dealt with this pretty well in the past, has hit her limit and just the other day woke me from my sleep to call me what I really am: a vehicle hoarder. After much denial and nail biting, I have finally come to grips with it.
My name is Jeff G. Holt, and I am a hoarding Harley and old iron-aholic.