Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.
The cars of my life
Cars don’t seem to be held in the same high esteem as in the good ole days. Today they’re mostly just to get you where you want to go, usually with high gas mileage and low emissions. And that’s if you even own a car, as Uber, Lyft, and public transportation seem to rule the day. Car manufacturers are already panicking about their future.
But back in my day, cars ruled. And so did their relationship to testosterone. Not only did all boys yearn for (okay, lust after) the car of their dreams, but that car should have the biggest, baddest, most powerful engine they could afford. And if a beefy muscle car was not your thing, a sporty model with sleek styling was just as good. To have either car bestowed immediate status upon the owner. Additional bragging rights were earned if you excelled in illegal street racing. Oh, and hot girls were attracted to such vehicles, and by the transitive law, to their drivers.
But, while this was the dream, my reality was somewhat different. You see, money was tight in my family. I didn’t own, and couldn’t afford, a car for most of my college years. Ultimately, my parents handed down to me their 1963 Ford Galaxy. Being my first ever car, I was unaware that regular maintenance was required, you know, like oil changes and tune ups. As a result, I blew up the engine one fateful day on my way to the Jersey Shore. My father was a bit upset.
But upon my college graduation, my parents apparently forgave me as they rewarded me with my very own, non-hand-me-down auto –- a 1960-something Rambler, acquired for the low, low price of $100! I was both greatly appreciative, and greatly embarrassed. My friends quickly nicknamed my car, The Turtle, both for its less than lightning speed, and its decidedly un-sleek styling. Let’s just say that the girls weren’t lining up for rides.
When the steering box failed, I found another $100 bargain car – a 4-door, multi-colored (thanks to replacement doors and primer paint) 1963 Chevy Nova sedan. Not the cool, sporty looking Nova of the late 60’s. No, this was a boxy, boring early 60’s model. Plus, the previous owner had modified the car, but not with a cool paint job or hopped up engine. Apparently his bench front seat had broken and he replaced it with a 2-door front seat. This allowed passengers to enter the back seat from either the back door OR the front door. My friends loved to bust my balls by entering and exiting the car’s rear seat through its various entry modes, turning it into a veritable clown car. At least my car had uniqueness going for it.
When the transmission failed on that car I traded up, I thought. I found a sleek, sporty, 1969 fire engine red Chevy Nova! Yeah, it was under-powered, and made strange noises, but it looked damn cool.
When the rear end on that Nova failed, I was understandably gun shy about my next car, I needed a win. Well, car karma finally went my way. I found another fire engine red vehicle, but this one was a sleek 1970 Olds Cutlass with vinyl roof (a thing back then). While red cars could attract the attention of young gals, I learned that they could also attract the attention of state troopers and local cops. I earned my share of speeding tickets.
And I learned that my red beauty had a few minor problems. One was that the accelerator frequently stuck in the down position, requiring me to occasionally turn off the engine when I couldn’t free the pedal. Another was that it liked to overheat at inopportune moments, like the time it was overheating in the middle of New York’s Lincoln Tunnel. It was a humid 90 degree day, and my only choice to keep the car moving was to turn on the car’s heater to reduce the engine’s temperature. I was a sweaty mess when I arrived to meet my lady friend, but at least I avoided the wrathful honking of NY drivers. Though my Olds ultimately fell victim to a broken timing chain, I loved that car as it kept going for 205,000 miles. Best. Car. Ever!