That's right, cars. I've had 5 of them, all fascinating and bizarre in their own way.

My first car I got freshman year in college. A Datsun something or other wagon. Little old thing from the late 70s, owned practically by a little old lady who never drove (she isn't actually a little old lady, but the car was being saved for someone who sort of left the picture before getting the car, which sat in a garage for a decade). Classic great find, right? Wrong. Cars age even when they sit in a garage (especially in Minnesota. Serious thermal cycling!), and they age in bizarre ways. Added to that was the fact that this car had had its engine replaced by the jiffy lube boys after they forgot to put the drain plug back in (screech! its not like the penzoil commercial where the engine just keeps on running). Well, the new engine they put in had some "issues". Like, only two of the cylinders had any compression. With only 4 to start with, that doesn't leave much car. One of those kind that's dangerous to drive--you try and pull out into traffic and the car says, hmm, maybe, maybe not, leaving you  halfway out in the lane of traffic, unable to drive backwards or forwards!

The car made a long trip down to the Bay Area for a summer, then a very sad trip back to Portland. Repeatedly overheating on the mountains. That days drive was a nightmare. First of all, we got stuck in traffic in downtown SF. When it was clear I was getting too angry to drive, Dino suggested we switch and I got out, slamming the driver's door in my frustration. All appeared well until we got to Park Presidio, approaching the Golden Gate Bridge. At which point the driver's door swung open. Evidently I had broken the latch. We got out and I proceeded to Duct Tape (aahh, the golden magic stuff) the door shut, cutting a huge gash in my finger while doing this. So we drove to Portland with the driver's door taped shut. Crawling over the brake and stick every stop. Then the car is so overloaded we've got the hoop-dee low-rider going on. And the car overheats on the mountain. Drive 20 minutes. Pull over and let the engine cool for 20 minutes. Drive 20 minutes. Pull over and .... What a joy. That evening in Portland, the car is acting funny, not idling well. The next morning it won't idle at all. evidently the idle screw had fallen out. Or something. I tried driving with the heel-toe action, but I was unscucsessful. We sold the car to a mechanic for a hundred bucks the next day.

So, maybe no car for a while, right? In 1994 Dino's grandma gave us her 1980 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme.

Truly, a car owned by a little old lady who never drove. It was worse. Wouldn't pass smog, Firestone claiming we needed a new carb, which would be a mere $800! Ha, we said. No deal. Got a smog exemption for 2 years. Little did we know. The car ran fine for a while. Took us on a trip south. Of course, the passenger side of the seat rail was broken, causing a wild swinging of the bench seat. Apparently we managed to get a penny shoved in the mechanism and the seat stayed put for a few years. And on went life. Late 1995, we decide to buy a new computer, and in the process of shoving it into the back seat dislodge said penny, returning us to the wild swings of the seat at every corner. This was only the beginning of the nightmare. We didn't drive much, both being students. The car sat parked for days at a stretch. One day, the day after the OJ Simpson Criminal Trial verdict, actually, I went out to get in the car, and noticed it looked a bit odd. It was missing it's back bumper. At first I thought perhaps some rioter had jumped up on the bumper in excitement, shearing it off. But no, the mounting plates were there, un-harmed. Someone had actually come up to the car and *un-bolted* the bumper. To this day I still gaze at every older blue Supreme I pass, looking for my bumper.  Of course, this did reduce the car's length by a few inches, making it marginally easier to park (always a plus in SF).

The car gradually began driving worse. It had a terrible oil leak, which mysteriously disappeared when we had the RR bearings repacked. I grew lazy about checking the oil. Then one day, months later, I thought to check it, and found the dipstick bone dry. The leak had returned!  The mileage started dropping off, and we tried to sell it too late--it wouldn't start all the time, and would on (frequent) occasion kill, especially on busy roads at rush hour. The carb was suspected, but we were not going to pour $800 into this car. By the end of its life it was getting less than 5 mpg, and then wouldn't run at all.

It was parked on a Wed street cleaning, and it was Tuesday night. We had to move it. So, Dino pushed and I steered (not an easy task with power assist that doesn't work because the car won't run). But, it was San Francisco. We couldn't find a parking spot! So we kept pushing, hoping for a non-parallel parking spot (you try pushing a car into parallel park). Nothing. At one point a person driving by took pity on us and called out, "where are you trying to get to?" thinking they'd give us a ride. When we said, "we're not--we're trying to park" they looked horrified and sped off. We finally parked it on a 9 am street cleaning and had the junker tow it away the next morning. They paid us $35 (Dino argued him up from $30!).

Which lets you see why I was so excited about buying my Honda Civic. Purchased brand new in June, 1996 for my new job. This was a trusty little commuter, which did clear 100 MPH on occasion (took all day to get there, mind you!)

Which lets you know why I was *sooooo* excited to get my next car, a 1971 Porsche 911. Alas, the glory days of this car were not to last. I never had any trouble with the car, but at some point in grad school, I had to admit that I simply could not afford a car with $500, chrome trimmed cardboard map pockets. As much as I loved this car, it was part of the mass liquidation of my life that occured before I moved to the south pole for a year.

When I returned from pole, something of an emotional wreck and certainly not able to fully function in the chaos of modern America, I simply decided I didn't need a vehicle. I was living with my parents (I can't really reccomend this when one is 29), I had my trusty bicycle, and in the tropical heat of a Minnesota winter, all was well. (To be honest, I did get cold on occasion. I seem to have permanently broken my thermostat at pole: I get cold when it's +60 °F, but I'm totally fine at -30 °F.)

Then I got a job in New Hampshire, and I needed to move. Pretty much its a grand to rent a u-haul, which just seemed like a ridiculous amount of money. I thought to myself, I can *buy* a truck for a grand, and then I'll have wheels once I get there. So I started searching for a truck, and lo and behold my dad's next door neighbor was finally ready to part with his 1971 Chevy 1 ton pickup, complete with super-size camper, for exactly $1000. I took it for a test drive with a car-wise buddy of mine. About all he had to say was, "that's probably as good as you'll find for a grand." It seemed to drive ok, so I bought it. And it started dying, while I was driving it. I took it in to a mechanic for a tune up. Still died. Then we tried a new carb. Nope. Fuel pump. Nope. While I'm at it, some tires that aren't all dry-rotted (at $100 each--who knew big truck tires were so expensive). Truck is still dying. Here is a picture, including my friends Chris and Brittany.

The tires were an adventure--my mechanic told me $100 each and I scoffed, sure I could do something better, but all the local tire shops were telling me much higher. So I take Bettie (the truck) into the mechanic for the new tires and he calls me a couple hours later to tell me their tire balancer isn't big enough to balance these freakishly large truck tires, and I'll have to take it to a truck stop. So I bike down to the shop, get some sketchy directions to a truck stop, and then they tell me that they couldn't get the original tires back on, and had put on the second set that came with the truck--it had come with two sets of tires and rims, but the second set was too large for the truck. So I hop in and learn what it means to drive with tires that are too big. You can't turn, because the tire rubs up into the wheel well. Not that this thing was easy to turn to begin with--I'm sure my biceps increased by 50% after I started driving the truck. I get about 5 miles down the freeway and of course the truck dies. I turn around, intending to limp back to the mechanic and on the way see a tire shop that someone had reccomended, which had two key features. They were open for business at the moment I was driving by, and they had a sign in the window saying they could do big tires. I pulled and and the truck died on cue (did I mention that for the last month I had been driving with the left foot on the brake and the right foot on the gas at all times to keep the truck from stalling whenever I took my foot off the gas. This is not easy to do). I walk into the tire shop and try to say how I want my tires fixed, etc, and they keep asking me questions, and I finally lose it and yell, "I've got 12 tires and 8 rims and I just want to drive away with 4 new tires and 4 working rims and you please just deal with the rest of it!"

Eventually we determined that the problem was basically in the gas tank. Changed the inline filter at the mouth of the tank and I never had another minute of trouble. I packed up all my stuff and drove 36 hours to New Hampshire. Where I discovered "vehicle inspections". Apparently, they don't let you drive rusty vehicles on the east coast. You can imagine what this truck looked like after sitting in a Minnesota driveway for 15 years. No inpection, no registration (actually this is not true, but when I moved here they misadvertantly told me I had to get an inspection *before* I could register the truck). No registration, no NH driver's license. My MN license was set to expire on my 30th birthday, mere weeks away. And so at 30, I suddenly found myself living in rural New Hampshire, with no friends, no driver's license, no vehicle, and an unpaid job. Kind of a low point. I waited a few weeks, until I figured the people at the DMV had forgotten me and my sorry truck, and then went in and announced that I'd just moved here with no vehicle and how does one go about getting a driver's license. Reinstated my status as an adult, parked the truck behind my cabin, and went about purchasing yet another disaster, a 1989 Ford Tempo from a "buddy" of a "buddy" for $600.

I never even took a picture of the Tempo, it was that bad and uninteresting. It drove alright for a while, but then it started stalling out while I was driving and my stomach just curdled up into a little pit. Gave it a tune up of sorts (the engine oil I drained out looked like melted chocolate--never seen that before!), and it almost seemed worse, as if changing the oil and plugs and cleaning the squirrels nest out of the air intake had unmasked other, worse problems. The heat went out, which is kind of annoying when the high temp for the day is -5 °F. And then one day I was driving, and was ready to stop driving, and I couldn't--yes, the brakes had gone. That was the final straw. I was tired of driving beaters. I started canvassing my friends, looking for a late model used Subaru wagon or Honda Civic. I inquired about car loans at the credit union. One buddy started in on this VW Golf, and I was just not interested, I was so focused on Hondas. Eventually he got through to me, and I went to look at it. And I bought it on the spot.

The Golf has turned out to be a very good move--the first in quite a while for me as far as cars go. Its a turbo diesel, which means I get 50 mpg. I've been looking into making biodiesel--cheaper for me and less traumatic to the earth!

webster@andreagrant.org. Last updated 13 September, 2003