It was a hot summer day in July. My wife and I would be married in just a few hours, and I had secured the perfect getaway car. It was my wife’s dream car, so I wanted us to ride in it at least once in our marriage. She was a cherry red, white sidewalls, dual four-barrel, 245 horsepower, convertible, old-school, 1957 Chevy Corvette. She was beautiful, and my soon-to-be wife was ravishing as well — the perfect car, for the perfect lady, on our perfect day. If only I had known how to drive a manual transmission.