Four-wheeled buddies

Originally released for publication March 2, 2005
(c) 2005 by Steve Martaindale
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Maybe it’s a fear of commitment, but it occurred to me I have never had a deep, personal relationship with anything powered by an internal combustion engine.

Could that be evidence of a low level of testosterone? Most guys always seem ready to pull photos of their favorite vehicles from their wallet and sing praises about cc’s and horsepower and cams and V-this and hemi-that. On the other hand, I can tell you if my vehicle has a standard or automatic transmission, its color and on which side to refuel.

Not that I haven’t had cars and trucks I really enjoyed driving or whose service was deeply appreciated.

Take that Nissan pickup (blue, standard transmission) I bought in the fall of 1988 when I won a contract running a courier service. For three and a half years, that pickup ran me around several counties every day. I bought it with about 35,000 miles on it and eventually sold it with more than 275,000 miles.

I changed the oil every 3,000 miles, kept good tires on the road and ran it through a car wash regularly, partly because the wash was free with purchase where I bought a tank of gas every day and the station’s owner, Jim, told me how to figure the wash code without even asking at the register.

In return, the truck was good to me. There was a handful of problems but never anything major. We had a good relationship, but it never reached that point of deep commitment. For example, I never changed its oil myself. I never bought it any fancy froufrou items some vehicles seem to like, such as special trim, fancy paint or a cassette deck.

Additionally, I never gave it a name. I did not name any of my cars or trucks, though a friend named one. Jean could not believe my little brown Pinto (automatic) did not have a name, explaining that all her family’s cars carried personal monikers. On the spot, she named it Seabiscuit.

Seabiscuit was not with me long and I never felt the need to name another vehicle. I hope Jean understands.

CLASSY RIDE

The sexiest car I ever had was in high school. Actually, my folks bought it and my brother and I shared it. The 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible was a putrid yellow with a ragged black top when we got it, but we had it painted a metal-flake blue and installed a new white top. That was the most refinement I have ever done on a car. It also taught me how to drive a standard, in its case a three-speed mounted on the steering column.

Leah and I did not start on a very solid footing as far as automobile purchases were concerned. Shortly before we married, we bought a white Volkswagen bug. It and I taught my fiancee how to drive a standard and I believe that experience was why Leah insisted 20 years later that I not be involved in teaching the same skills to our daughter.

The bug was with us maybe two months before its engine burned up long after dark on the outskirts of Finley, Okla., while en route to introduce Leah to my grandmother.

Knowing I needed a car to do my job, my publisher in Brenham interceded with the bank and we were able to buy a used Pinto. This one was red and an automatic and shortly after we bought it we received a recall about the possibility of the vehicle blowing up if rear-ended in an accident.

Since that regrettable beginning, though, we’ve enjoyed a string of vehicles that is one K-car short of being almost perfect. Most of them recorded more than 100,000 miles before put out to pasture. One was totaled in an accident three years ago but its last act was to protect our daughter and her friend from serious injury.

Maybe my cars and I have had a closer relationship than I have ever realized. Maybe they are like me and don’t need a lot of touchy-feely stuff to feel appreciated.
(c) 2005 by Steve Martaindale