We put the top down at the stoplight before we get to the highway, since "What's the point of driving a convertible if you're not going to use it?" as Katie says.
But once we're on the highway, the romance wears off fast as the wind whips our hair (especially Katie's long, thick hair) into rat's nests and furious knots. Plus you can really feel the speed at which you're barrelling down the road when you're actually able to clock the windspeed on your face.
Then there's the people driving even faster than you, the speed demons screaming down the left lane beside you, the whine of their motors and the reeeeen of their tires as they shriek past calling out "death, death, death," right next to your head in your low slung convertible, barely something to notice before they're here, there, gone.
One year ago: I'm Only Six Four, Tops
Two years ago: We Know Our Own
Three years ago: Tempus Fugit
Four years ago: Maybe I'M The Problem.
Ten years ago: She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain