It was a beautiful sight: Perfectly manicured rolling greens overlooking the bay, the finest display of over 300 new and vintage luxury and racing automobiles, champagne from Sherry-Lehmann flowing, and men, lots and lots of men. The Bridge presented by Richard Mille founded by Robert Rubin, Shamin Abas and Jeffrey Einhorn celebrated its fifth year in what Rubin describes as a picturesque gearhead garden party. Set on the site of what was formerly the Bridgehampton Race Track and now The Bridge Golf Club, the event included vintage cars which actually raced the track back in the day. The exclusive gathering of invite-only collectors from all over the world was brimming with enthusiasm. While the cacophony of “599GTO, 911GT3, XJ220, 600LT” sounded to me a bit like Charlie Brown’s teacher, I could tell from the masculine squeals of delight that I was in the presence of greatness. One man said he didn’t even consider himself an owner but a custodian.
Look, I am one who cares about my car — I call up the dealership and say, “White Rose needs a spa day,” and when there is a puzzled silence I clarify, “Can I get an appointment to detail my 328i?” But this event put appreciation at a whole new level. With no ropes or stanchions, you could actually touch and sit in some of these multi-million-dollar rides.
The story of a man and his car is ultimately a love story. More than a need for speed it is a sense of identity and personal history. One collector of Ferrari Challenge Cars remembered fondly his first Honda Prelude (I definitely do not feel that way about my Ford Pinto.) Einhorn who is a real automotive expert explained, “Car enthusiasts gather around the cars which vibrate most loudly in their souls — conjuring up dreams inspired by the posters from their bedroom walls.” For him it was a white Porsche Turbo Whale Tail. Clearly so much cooler than what Scott Baio did for my teenaged soul.
For some, their collections are treasures kept in temperature-controlled garages and are as one classic Corvette owner called them “trailer queens,” where they only are driven on and off the trailer. I likened this to a woman in stiletto heels so beautiful but impossible to walk in that her man would have to throw her over his shoulder to move her from point A to point B. Other collectors are of the mind that cars are meant to be driven since “a lack of use is major form of abuse,” like one owner who brought his Corvette that he actively races.
I was worried I might come across as a creepy husband steeler trying to chat up all the men to learn about the cars but as one man said, “If there is a guy in a lawn chair in front of his car, he definitely wants to talk about it.”
I learned a lot, that Ferrari windshields are a bitch to replace, that some race cars are “street legal,” that just like art, some models are forgeries with experts able to match the font on vintage VIN numbers, and that a good wife is one who builds you a 13-car garage. One collector even included in his will that the proceeds from selling his classic car would go to his favorite animal rescue charity.
I was duly impressed by the vintage Jaguar XKSS, a ’68 Shelby GT500KR and the new luxury electric Lucid Air, but the car which pulled at my heart strings was a 1955 Gullwing Mercedes 300 SL which was in a place of honor despite some rust spots and torn leather. Inside was a simple binder that included pictures of the owner in the ’70s with his girlfriend sitting on the hood and a faded registration. As Einhorn said, “A car doesn’t have to be a Bugatti to be loved.”
