Well, my parents just sold my first car. It'd been sitting awhile, so it was moldy, didn't run that well, and had a dead battery, but it was still a little odd to see it go. A part of me wanted to keep it, but it wasn't about the car--hell, I am much happier with my current vehicle.
It was about the feeling of going as fast as the V-6 in that old Citation would take her. I never did know how fast that was, exactly, since the speedometer only went up to 85.
It was about yelling at drunk friends not to moon people or security cameras.
It was about being pulled over many times, but never ticketed. My next car garnered me a ticket pretty quickly.
It was about laying claim to a parking spot at my old high school. When a kid a year or two younger than me tried to take that spot, I gathered a few people to move his little Metro. Turned out it was unlocked, so it was a one man job. And it was, since others saw him coming and bolted. I, however, kept moving it, replying to his yelling with a brief response: "It was in my spot." (Yeah, I know, as a proponent of property rights, I probably shouldn't reminisce about screwing with someone's stuff, but it didn't hurt a thing.)
Most of all, it was about freedom. When my great-grandfather gave me that car, I was no longer tethered so strongly to my tiny little hometown. Sure, I'd had friends who could get me places, but I'm not the sort to ask, and I AM the sort who wants to take off when he wants to take off.
I hadn't driven the old Citation in a few years, but she was still the same car under the grime. She still liked to be revved, she still idled hot, she still had the same steering wheel cover, and a helmet decal from my football days still clung to her bumper--I don't think that decal will ever come off; it outlasted two or three bumper stickers before I finally decided I didn't need anything but that decal back there.