I do not know how many hands it passed through or how many disillusioned souls failed to connect with its lofty aim. Nor do I know how many of its multitude of dings were caused by the noble pursuit of its promise, or how many by simple disappointment, the abandonment of the dream, the banishment to the outer regions of futility, the suburban garage, from which rarely a dream is revived. The one thing I do know is that someone saw something in it long after its newness was lost to multiple flesh wounds of punctured, torn fiberglass and gouged foam. Perhaps those two words caught their heart in a blaze of catalyst…PURE JOY. And the aroma of ding repair mingled with the musty odor of a garage full of good intentions.