At some point, the stuff of your dreams (and if you're here, those dreams might just have side strakes and NACA ducts) gets old. One day, the all-conquering hero of yesterday's car rag crosses the depreciation threshold of your average income, no matter how many posters filled bedroom walls or pre-driver's license hearts burned with eternal lust.

And now that you're older and remember the object of your unrequited lust with fuzzy imperfection, and your bank account contains the equivalent of a modern sedan or a poster-child of your youth with a checkered past, you might have an irrational notion. Maybe you want to own the supercar of your now-outdated dreams. There's only one problem with that.

Hate to break it to you, kid, but it ain't a supercar no more. Your sacred cows are now hamburger patties, but don't shoot the messenger. Jack Baruth, no stranger to sticking a flathead screwdriver into the eye socket of sentimental convention, is all over the why.