My 18-year-old car is about to turn a quarter million miles, which worries me a little. I love that car. It’s a coupe, with a six-speed stick (I replaced the clutch for the first time at 220,000 miles.) Except for the left rear quarter panel, which isn’t all that bad, the paint looks pretty good. Never wrecked, barely dinged. I’m going to hate to give it up, but, among other things, it’s getting increasingly difficult for people my age to get in and out of the back seat. (I’ve had to rent cars when the need arises.) Still, it drives great, feels frisky, and — now non-negotiable with my wife in whatever we get next — it’s the first car we’ve had with heated seats.
I love cars, lusting after ones way beyond my reach. I go to auto shows, read reviews, used to subscribe to “Car and Driver” until I decided it was making me crazy. On the other hand, I tend to hang onto them. The first car my wife and I bought together, a 1971 Beemer 1600, we kept for over 20 years, eventually made it nearly like new and donated it to the Mukilteo Little League auction where, for a couple more years anyway, it became a tradition for the owner to re-donate it the next year. Her car now is pushing 15 years, but I’d have to steal it to get it away from her.
I blame my uncle. As a high school graduation present, he arranged the use of a brand new Corvette for prom weekend. Holy cow. One family car at that time was a Buick, and my brother and I shared a beat-up and worn-down old Plymouth with a clutch that barely engaged. Dad had a Hillman Minx, first gear in which took the car all the way to about 10 mph. Accelerating for the first time in that ‘Vette, rear end fishtailing to near 60 in first, I was in another world, and had to resist the urge to drop my date off at the prom and keep on driving. The next day, we drove it like devils to the Oregon coast. Giving it back ranks among the 50 or so saddest days of my life.
Much as I like a stick shift (the only car I ever owned with an automatic was a classic ‘49 Caddie, a beauty that got thumbs pointing upwards on those rare occasions when I ungaraged it, before I decided I should know more about fixing it to own it), I’m thinking my next car might not have one. For one thing, they no longer get better mileage than automatics; for another, traffic from Northgate to downtown Seattle is starting to make my left thigh hurt.
This car gets decent mileage, but I want the next one to get around 40 on the road. And I still want to love driving it, which will limit the options, and tempt me to get another stick shift. Whatever it is, it’ll have four doors. If I can coax another year or two out of my aging ride, I’m sure there’ll be more good choices. Meanwhile my conscience is clear, mileage-wise, knowing that keeping an older car saves the energy costs of building a new one.
Clearly, a major rethink in our affairs with cars is coming fast. Smaller, better mileage, electricity: all these are becoming necessary considerations. I filled my first self-owned car, a new ‘65 Mustang, with gas that cost about 19 cents a gallon, and climate change wasn’t on anyone’s mind. Since gas prices will only rise, and since supplies are finite, seems to me the sooner we find reliable alternatives to internal combustion the better off we’ll be. Besides which, it’ll be a long time before we have electric Dreamliners and diesel-free trains. So we better save the petroleum for them. I think that makes perfect sense.
But I’m not ready to stop loving my cars, and I still want to enjoy driving for its own sake. Tesla makes a technologically amazing electric car I covet. If they ever produce one in my price range, I’m there. But I guess when it comes to cars there’s a hypocrite inside, fighting to get out. Wrong in nearly every way but love and lust, I’m still drooling over the 2014 Corvette I just read about. Anyone want to be my uncle and get me one for prom weekend?
Sid Schwab lives in Everett. Send emails to columnsid@gmail.com
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