Hot Wheels.

I found a plastic bin of them at the Good Samaritan thrift store Thursday. There were five to each plastic bag going for $1.99. 

I began searching through them, about 50, hoping I might find some of the Hot Wheels of my youth. Those had cool names. Jack Rabbit. Sand Crab. Boss Hoss. Python. Red Baron. King Cobra. Beatnik Bandit.

While there were some old ones from the '70s and even the '60s, perhaps worth a few dollars, which I bought, I didn’t find what I was looking for. Not surprising, as today they are likely worth hundreds, perhaps even thousands of dollars.

But sorting through Hot Wheels brought back precious memories. They were my life when I was a kid growing up near Green Lake in Seattle. I had what seemed like miles of orange tracks, red joiners, starting gates, finish lines, curves and jumps. 

My brothers and I arranged the tracks through the basement, seeing how far we could run them, over and around obstacles. We would set the jumps far apart to see just how far they could go. We would set the starting line on a table with a steep drop to see how fast they could go.

Most important, though, were the small, metallic cars. I coveted and collected them. The sleek Jack Rabbit was my favorite and was the fastest car in my collection. Unbeatable.

But while I loved them, I didn’t always take care of them.

My brothers and I raced them and smashed them. When one car crashed on the track, we would send down another to knock it off. If that didn’t work, we sent another. And another. 

Sometimes, a wheel would break off. Usually, I could fix it simply by snapping it back on and it would return to the track. If it was beyond repair, it was heartlessly tossed aside.

Eventually, there would be a 30-car pileup that we would reluctantly remove so we could start it all over.

God it was fun.

I loved those tiny cars even more than my brothers. And even then, I knew they had value. Like my baseball cards, I knew they would be worth money later.

So, I picked my best 12 and set them in a plastic case, each car in an individual slot, with a plastic lid that slid shut to protect them.

I stopped playing with these untouchable cars. For years, they sat on a shelf in the upstairs room of our home.

Eventually, much to my parents' relief, I moved out to live on campus at the University of Washington, where despite being a poor student who dropped more classes than he completed and had trouble staying awake, I somehow managed to earn a degree.

At some point, my mother did what mothers do. She got rid of my stuff I left behind. The chess set collection, gone. The chess books, gone. The Hot Wheels tracks, gone. And much to my horror, the Hot Wheels cars in that plastic case, gone.

I remember asking my mom what happened to them. She didn’t recall, but told me if it was that important, I should have taken better care of them and taken them with me.

Like most moms, she was right. 

If I don’t think about it, it doesn’t hurt too much.

There was some consolation in my thrift store find. There was a 1976 Fire Eater red fire truck. And a 1969 Chevy Nomad. A 1974 Silver Bullet. And a 1977 purple SUV-type rig that didn’t have a name. Pretty cool.

No, they’re not the Red Baron, the Sand Crab or the Python, but they are Hot Wheels and they’re from my childhood era and they’re even ready to race.

All I need is some orange track, my brothers and we’re in business.

I bet the Jack Rabbit would still win.

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Coeur d'Alene Press.