To be honest, I’m not much on fantasies -- I prefer pursuing things that can actually occur. But since this issue focuses on the fantastic, I came up with an idea that did appeal to me: driving a convertible sports car to Atlantic City and back on a bright, sunny day. Not so fantastic, perhaps, but relatively unattainable, considering I don’t own a convertible and have no immediate way of securing one. But after a little research, I was able to satisfy at least part of my fantasy: I did ride in a convertible sports car. But I neither went to Atlantic City, nor had the pleasure of driving the car myself. Genuine fantasies are truly tricky.

Renting a convertible in this area during the prime summer months has become near impossible. The larger car rental companies have pretty much wiped convertibles off of their rosters; the smaller companies, usually located in the 'burbs, are hard to get to and prohibitively overpriced. There are a few places where specialty convertibles, owned by private owners who are in most cases collectors, are housed and serviced -- though not rented. One such place is Ragtops & Roadsters, a shop in Perkasie, Pa., which specializes in the restoration and repair of British and special-interest automobiles. After a single phone call, Dave Hutchison, Ragtops & Roadsters' operations manager, generously offered to chauffeur me in a beautiful vintage British MTGC sports car (circa 1949), through the heart of the city.

In the week leading up to the excursion, rain had been a problem. Hutchison pointed out that his shop would not even consider exposing these extremely expensive, well-preserved vehicles to inclement weather. So, when the sun finally poked its head through the rain clouds, I dialed him up and arranged to meet him.

The antique roadster was an ostentatious beauty. Bright red, shiny silver dashboard, sparkling spoke wheels, the quintessential European right-hand drive, extremely low to the ground, with a distinctive vroom. Though this car was a bona fide stunner, my own taste in cars is a bit different. In my true fantasy, I probably would have opted for a sleek Jaguar XJ6 or even a dusty 1967 Mustang.

Under perfectly blue skies and a canopy of cumulus clouds, Hutchison and I started cruising up Chestnut Street, headed toward South. The stares along the way were plentiful and seemingly genuine. Reflexive smiles came on cue, as pedestrians and other motorists spied this vintage automobile tooling -- most appropriately -- down the cobblestoned streets of Old City.

"That's a beautiful car," shouted one of Old City's endeared colonials, dressed from head to toe in full retro regalia. "Wow," mouthed a cyclist, gazing down into our tiny car as he whizzed by us.

"There were only 10,000 MGTs like this ever made," Hutchison says. He explains that the roadster's design impressed U.S. GIs in England, who compared them approvingly to American-made Buicks and Chevys. "This car started the British sports-car fad in the States," he says proudly.

It's early afternoon on South Street; the streets aren't packed, but beginning to fill. "Look at that," remarks what appears to be a 5-year-old, perhaps destined to become a vintage auto collector. Even a gaunt young woman with bright green hair and body piercings takes time to admire the uniqueness of this pristine vessel with a bejeweled thumbs-up gesture. "Hey man, not bad," a man in a white-paneled truck says to Hutchison. "What year is that?" Hutchison swells with pride, throwing the four-speed into third gear.

The ride itself was interesting; we traveled along Market Street, crossing Broad during the height of lunch hour. Observing the hordes of car lovers in town was eye-opening.

But my fantasy had shortcomings. First off, I wasn't driving, which lessened my sense of personal satisfaction. And since I was seated inside the car, I didn't get to visually savor its aesthetic. Most sadly, though, Atlantic City was not on the itinerary and the ride, lasting all of about an hour, was confined to congested city streets.

As fantasies go, on a scale from one to 10, this one gets a four. Don't misunderstand. The car was gorgeous, my driver gregarious and informative. Seeing the reaction from people was definitely memorable, too. But fantasies are tough. Webster's dictionary defines "fantasy" thusly: a hallucination. In that case, one can almost assume that fantasies, in their truest form, often remain unattainable. Slipping into the snugness of that 1949 British MGTC roadster, my feet firmly planted upon its wooden floorboards, meandering through the aorta of Philadelphia on a sunny Thursday afternoon does seem a bit far-fetched. I think it may even make the "fantasy" criteria. Too bad, though, it wasn't quite mine.