There it was on the used car lot, spiffed up and looking almost new. My car! One of the best of many cars I’ve owned.
It gave me a turn to see it sitting there. A touch of seller’s remorse. What was I thinking to have traded in an old friend that had never been anything but reliable and accommodating.
It was a Hyundai, one of only three new cars I’ve ever owned. I drove it for seven years and never had a moment’s trouble with it. Nothing but oil changes and other routine maintenance. Never once did it break down, fail to start or produce so much as a squeak or a rattle.
The “many cars I’ve owned” statement above is not an exaggeration. I used to go through cars the way most people go through socks. There have been, through the years, at least 30 of them.
With the Hyundai on the used car lot and a “new” car in the garage, it seemed fitting to reminisce about some of their predecessors.
The first, which gets short shrift here because its traitorous nature has been a subject of previous columns, was a sports car. A bright red, MG convertible. Even the salesman who sold it to me warned me not to buy it. It cost as much to keep it running for a year as it did to purchase it in the first place.
It was the only British car of the bunch. The others have been German, Swedish, Italian or Japanese.
The Italian car – there was just one of those – was a Fiat. It was also one of only three new cars I’ve ever owned, the rest all having been used cars. I debated between it and a VW bug and within a few weeks deeply regretted my choice.
The Fiat went through a set of rear tires every 1,500 miles – worn through all the way to the steel belts. The logical conclusion was that the tires were defective. Logical, but wrong.
Virtually all cars need to have their front tires aligned now and then. The Fiat needed to have its rear tires aligned, and they went out of a alignment if you hit a pothole, drove over a curb or so much as gave them a withering look, which I did frequently.
The car’s batteries had a nasty habit of catching fire, and both of its side rearview mirrors fell off and shattered. Most unnerving, however, was its habit of howling like a woebegone dog. A mechanic I hired to diagnose the mournful sound turned pale upon hearing it. We jointly concluded that the car was haunted.
One of my favorite cars was a Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. It was the vehicle that took me on a memorable, overnight drive to San Francisco. I’d have been 19 or 20 at the time. Bored and restless, I gassed up the car and drove straight through. It was a lovely summer night, and long stretches of the Nevada desert were virtually traffic free. All these years later, that peaceful, solitary drive remains a cherished memory.
The Karmann Ghia came to a sad end, however, broadsided by a car that had run a stop sign going way too fast. No serious injuries, but the car was a total loss. I still think of it now and then, wistfully and with affection.
Most of the German cars were VWs, but three were used Mercedes. The first was purchased for $400 while I was stationed in Germany in the Navy. It was was great around town, but 70 miles into its first road trip the oil pressure needle dropped like Vladimir Putin’s international approval ratings.
The second Mercedes was nicer, pricier. But, like its predecessor, it used oil. A lot of oil! The problem, an expensive one, was diagnosed as a burnt piston. We sold it to a young couple who fell in love with it even knowing about the oil problem. When they realized how serious it was, I offered to take the car back. Instead, they sold it. To a journalist!
Readers who have owned them know that a certain defunct line of Swedish cars was known for being quirky. Saabs were famously quirky. Their styling was unique, instantly recognizable. Their engines were mounted backwards; the ignition was on the floor console instead of the steering column.
I had four of them through the years, and they were all great cars – comfortable, solid, safe. A friend was surprised when he took his car in for servicing at a luxury-car dealership to learn that the service manager there drove a Saab. Asked why, his response was, “Trust me. If you’re in a wreck, you want to be in a Saab.”
Solid? It would have taken a tornado to blow one off of a freeway.
My “new” car?
It’s a departure for me, in more ways than one. My first American car, my first electric car – a used Chevy Bolt. Zero emissions, no gas to buy, good for the environment.
The salesman told me it would be fun to drive, and he couldn’t have been more right. It handles almost like a sports car, and electric engines are hot. Give the accelerator a brisk push and your head snaps back.
That said, I still get nostalgic thinking about the faithful Hyundai sitting on the used car lot.
It’s never easy to lose an old friend.
***
My favorite response to my last column, on whether we aren’t as happy as we used to be, came from reader Ray Guindon.
Ray thinks we’re less happy now because we’re less connected. He “grew up in a time when there were three TV networks and maybe four local channels. … No computers, cable, cell phones, internet, streaming, etc. (With all those things) it’s just easier to disconnect.”
He fondly recalled an incident in which he and another baseball fan were washing their hands next to each other in a stadium restroom. When he noticed that they were wearing T-shirts of the opposing teams, he suggested that they each use the other’s as a towel to dry their hands.
“A lot of laughter ensued,” he wrote.
Try getting that kind of connection on a computer.
Tim Woodward’s column appears every other Sunday in The Idaho Press and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@gmail.com.
Tim Woodward 