A month ago my venerable Jeep Cherokee decided it had had
enough. (See October 15 blog: So It Goes.)
My pickup (as old as the Jeep, but with 112,000 fewer miles on it) is still in
good shape, but this is not a suitable vehicle for all purposes, so the
purchase of a replacement car could be put off no longer. The deed is done. A
brief finger-count reveals to me that that my new vehicle is my 10th
in my life. I could count differently. I could include a 1965 GMC pickup that I
frequently used, for example, but it wasn’t “mine” formally or informally: it
was my dad’s. There were two vehicles during my ill-fated marriage that were
“ours,” but as a matter of practice they weren’t ours: they were hers. On the other
hand there was a Jeepster that wasn’t in my name (again, it was my dad’s), but
which nonetheless I do count, since I was the most common driver of it. So,
I’ll stick with a 10-count. Many of our significant memories involve our
vehicles in one way or another. The nice round number 10 invites a bit of
retrospection. The ones below were purchased new unless I mention otherwise.
1970 Jeepster C101 Commando
I got my license in January 1970. (NJ driving age is 17 and
the holidays had delayed my test.) The Jeepster was an excellent vehicle on
which to develop driving skills: a stick shift V6 with no power steering, no power brakes,
and a clutch with scarcely any slippage. Every vehicle I’ve driven since has
been a breeze by comparison. I think my father had bought this Jeep because it
reminded him of the war surplus Willys he had owned in 1946, but it wasn’t very
practical for most of my father’s needs on or off the job (he always had a full-size
pickup for the latter), so I was its driver most of the time – almost exclusively
after the first few years. By 1976 it had developed a reluctance to start in
the morning that even changing the starter didn’t cure, so I took to parking it
on an incline. I would let it roll forward, turn on the key, and engage second
gear. Worked every time. Fondest memory: my dad’s clear expressions of alarm
during my driving lessons.
1973 Ford Maverick
This was the first car actually in my own name. Though it
sported a 302 V8, it wasn’t terrible on gas by the standards of the day,
perhaps because such a powerful engine in a compact car never had to strain.
Good thing, because the first oil crisis struck just a few months after I
bought it. The Ford remained with me for the next 7 years and took me around
the US. They were eventful years for me, as one’s 20s tend to be; the Maverick
was a part of them. (The car figures in two of my nonfiction short stories over
at http://richardbellush2.blogspot.com/ : The Driving Lesson
[in which I’m the teacher] and The Roxy
Caution.) Fondest memories: 1) extracting my girlfriend Angela from the
seat belt when the buckle inexplicably jammed – no doubt a more amusing
circumstance for me than for her – and 2) navigating LA in those pre-GPS days
en route to the Hollywood apartment building where my sister Sharon resided
with her first husband Frank.
1979 Ford F150 pickup
The F150 had an automatic transmission and the same 302 engine
as my Maverick, but otherwise it was no-frills. It was with me until 2001. Though
utilitarian, this is the one vehicle I regret having sold. It did, however,
belong to the model years in which the Ford transmissions had a quirk. The
shift sometimes would be obstructed from sliding into “Park.” If you didn’t
look, but just shifted by feel, you could think you were in “P” when in fact
you were hung up between “P” and “R.” If you left the vehicle to open a garage
door or some such thing, the shift could slip back into “R.” This leads to a
fondest memory (though I’d be hard pressed to explain why it is): I exited the
truck to open a garage door. Suddenly the F150 was off on a backwards journey.
I ran after it yelling, “Stop!” For some reason the truck didn’t obey me. It
arced off the driveway to the left, slipped between two big black birches, and
smacked into a flexible young cedar. The cedar bent and stopped the Ford
without damage. I scolded the truck for running away but praised it for its
choice of trees.
1981 Dodge Aries
This was a “K car,” the platform designed to bring Chrysler
back from the brink of bankruptcy. Front wheel drive and a fuel-saving
4-cylinder engine were considered innovative in the day. Though it had and
still has a fairly decent reputation, no car ever gave me more trouble. Its
worst habit: it would vapor lock unpredictably in any time or place and sputter
to a halt. There was nothing to do at that point but to wait for the engine to
cool down, after which the fuel in the line would reliquefy and the engine
would start as though nothing were wrong. Usually this took 20 minutes or so,
but on one occasion the Aries stranded me overnight in NYC. Fondest memory:
driving into the driveway of my first house (more of a cottage, really) after
the closing.
1982 Oldsmobile Toronado
This had been my mom’s car. I bought it from her in 1986. In
a reverse of the Aries experience, the V8 diesel Toronado had a terrible public
reputation, but it served me well and flawlessly. The car also was economical
considering its size. The Toronado was the largest and most upscale of any of
my cars. Its long hood made a U-turn feel like a circumnavigation of the globe.
Fondest memory: the drives to Mineola starting in 1986. They ended in 1989 after
the young lady I’d visit there woke me up at home with one those 1:00 a.m. “We
have to talk” phone calls.
1990 Ford Taurus
This was an unremarkable but reliable vehicle, which is all
I ask a car to be. I none-too-successfully chased a blues singer while it was
my primary ride. Fondest memory: squeezing said blues singer and her band into
the car in Greenwich Village for a ride out to a gig in Denville, NJ.
1995 Ford Taurus
Based on my experience with the previous Taurus, I bought
another one. This one had more bells and whistles, but also had a familiar
problem: vapor lock, It didn’t happen as often is it did in the Dodge, but
there is never a convenient time for it to happen at all. I met my future ex
while driving it. Fondest memory: selling it.
1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee
I inherited the Jeep when my mom died in 2001 – my father
had died the previous year. In the dozen years thereafter the Jeep took me
anywhere I wanted to go, anytime and regardless of road condition. It never got
stuck, even in major snowstorms or in Hurricane Sandy. Although it
nickel-and-dimed me with small repairs – the worst of them being a wiper motor
– it never once stranded me until its very last day on the road when it could
go no farther. Fondest memory: teaching a neighbor’s daughter (a sort of
quasi-niece) to drive in it.
1998 GMC 2500 Sierra pickup
I inherited the GMC truck at the same time as the Jeep – as
a practical matter it already had been mine for a year. It is with me to this
day. I don’t put many miles on it. I use it as a back-up transport and…well… as
a truck. So, though it is 15 years old, it has modest wear and tear. The 4WD is
handy in winter, but the 34 gallon tank makes filling up an expensive
proposition. At this point, I see no reason it can’t match my old F150’s
22-year longevity. Fondest memory: as a passenger when my father was behind the
wheel.
2014 Chevy Cruze
The size and feel of the new Cruze reminds me a lot of my
Maverick, which (counting only the cars) makes a full circle of sorts. It’s my
first Chevy. I haven’t had it long enough for a memory fonder than “driving it
home,” but there is time to make more. Given how long I usually keep cars,
there is likely to be lots of time.
Chevy Commercial from
my birth year
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