Car Misadventures — Part 1
My first car
Endings always usher in new beginnings. Thus it was when I bade farewell to my first car, a VW Bug. It was like a first crush. I loved that car in all its simplicity and old-fashioned curves. It looked dorky but charming. The car was an unusual version of the famous Beetle: a semi-automatic with a stick shift but no clutch pedal and 3 gears.* I never wanted to part with it, but eventually capitulated to my father’s ever more urgent entreaties to procure a safer vehicle (he was losing sleep thinking about the consequences of an accident to my life and limb). I sold the Beetle to a young woman who needed a car without a clutch because she had only one leg. The car came with a hidden gift.
My boyfriend had given me one of his rings, a small pyramid of sculpted silver with a beautiful inset amethyst. One day I removed the ring and placed it on the dash because it felt uncomfortable against the steering wheel. And promptly forgot about it. The next time I pulled out of my driveway I heard the ring skitter across the dashboard and watched helplessly as it disappeared into some small opening that descended to parts unknown. For years I searched for the ring. I still think about it.
I acquired the Beetle when I was 21, from a distant cousin who purchased it during her two-year stint as an au pair in Marin, where she found herself isolated without wheels. My prior transportation was a moped with side baskets for grocery shopping and longer treks across town. It was rather dangerous in the rain: front wheel brakes would cause the rear to buck up and nearly throw me when the streets were slick. Mostly I walked, rode my ten-speed bicycle, used public transit, and hopped rides with friends.
My Bug was pale yellow with a small square sunroof that cranked open by hand. The freedom the car provided was heady. I could drive from Berkeley to Stinson Beach, the entire car vibrating when I took it over 60 miles per hour. I stole glances away from the road to take in the immense sweep of sea and sky as I wound my way down the coast and felt free as a lark.
The car was badly faded when I got it and looked rather forlorn. A search in the yellow pages revealed numerous options for painting the car, almost all financially out of reach. A silly-looking advertisement with a cartoon figure promised paint jobs for under $100. It was an extravagance I could afford, and I was delighted with the result.
Early on I made three discoveries in rapid succession: the vehicle construction was insubstantial, the gas gauge was inaccurate, and the sunroof was not impermeable to rain.
On one of my first Sunday mornings as a car owner and shortly after getting it painted, I drove to the other side of town for bagels, delighted to be able to do so on a whim. I was a cautious driver, especially so when I was still becoming acquainted with the car. The small parking lot was blessedly empty, relieving me of any fancy parking maneuvers. After pulling into a space, I sat in the car for a moment and noticed another car enter the lot. The newcomer pulled in rather quickly right next to me, and plowed into my passenger side door. I was so startled by the impact that I was temporarily baffled by what had happened. Wasn’t the parking lot empty? We exited our vehicles and the other driver began having conniptions, repeating that he was just going to get bagels. I was dismayed by the large indentation in the door, especially so soon after getting my new paint job. My Bug was clearly unable to withstand a minor impact. The driver paid for the repairs and no sign of the accident remained, but I never understood why he chose to pull in next to me when there were so many easier spots to choose.
My first tank of gas seemed to last forever — until it didn’t. It took a long time for the gas gauge to budge since I used the car infrequently. After several weeks, when the gauge registered a quarter tank, I made a mental note to refuel soon. I didn’t think much about it subsequently since the indicator remained steady. One morning I descended the short steep hill at the end of my street and entered a more heavily trafficked thoroughfare. I noticed that depressing the gas pedal resulted in no acceleration. My Bug uttered a few coughs and lurches and came to a very slow stop. I had run out of gas. I got out of the car, put my shoulder into the open door frame, and pushed it to the gas station on the corner. Conveniently, the block to the gas station was on a slight downward incline and the car weighed little. I never ran out of gas again, knowing the gauge was a poor approximation of what remained in the tank.
I lived in a small apartment above three garages and had a parking space in front of one garage. The space was angled upward, necessitating careful backing out to the street. Winter, at that time, was predictably wet in the Bay Area. After the first heavy downpour of the season I backed out of my driveway and heard a loud gurgling followed by the sound of rushing water coming from the sunroof. In an instant, ice-cold water sheeted down on my head and into my lap. Temporarily blinded by the deluge, I hit the brakes. The sunroof had collected rainwater that could not drain fast enough through the small channels in the roof. Thereafter, I backed the car into my parking space when it was raining or ran out in the middle of the night to do so if I woke up in time. When I hadn’t backed into my parking space for a rain, I donned a waterproof poncho and put a towel in my lap before pulling out of my driveway. For many years, long after selling my Bug, I felt anxious on rainy winter nights.
*VW introduced the Automatic Stick Shift semi-automatic transmission option in 1968, a regular Beetle four-speed manual with first gear removed, a torque converter added, and a vacuum-operated clutch that disengaged any time the shifter was touched.
A SAAB story or two
The sale of my VW Bug was precipitated by my father’s entreaties, and also his instruction that I pick up a used SAAB he had just purchased in New Hampshire and drive it to California. The SAAB was a gorgeous deep rich red 900 hatchback in great condition. It felt extraordinarily fancy, particularly so after the Bug. The dashboard reminded me of an airplane cockpit. **
Our family had a history with SAABs. In 1970 my parents bought a SAAB 99, taking advantage of the savings that accompanied picking it up from the factory in Sweden, driving it around the country for a short while, and shipping it to the East Coast. We included Sweden in our summer vacation, visiting with family in Europe before arriving in Trollhätten. I was ten at the time, my older brother was 11, and my younger brother was just one. The entire undertaking was tremendously exciting.
After my father completed some paperwork in an industrial office next to the factory, we received the keys and car, a spanking new tan colored SAAB. One of the rear passenger windows had a sticker on it depicting a smiling mop-haired head with two feet and no torso, below which was printed “Made In Trollhätten By Trolls.” We loved that sticker. Over the next few days we drove through the countryside, visiting several castles. I can’t recall much, other than that it was very green and pretty, but I do remember quite clearly that we felt like royalty. Our dark-haired Semitic looking family provided entertainment to the locals on the road and wherever we stopped. People would take note of us, stare, smile, and wave as we passed by. Sweden was much more homogenous and blonde then.
Several months after returning home, our car arrived at the port in Boston. No other families I knew owned a SAAB; everyone had large boat-like American cars. Station wagons were popular, especially those with faux wood paneling. For families with means, a Cadillac was the car of choice. We had always been a one-car family until, several years after purchasing the 99, my parents bought a SAAB 96 V4 2-door sedan for my mom. It was an odd-looking vehicle with a hunched over, awkward, ugly appearance and none of the elegant lines of the 99. Sadly, the 96, unlike our 99, seemed to be a lemon and was frequently in the shop.
The 99 was good to us for seven years, until the radiator began misbehaving. Not long after my parent’s divorce, my older brother and I returned east for the summer (I from college in California and my brother from college in Arizona). We cleaned, painted, and packed, readying our family home for sale, then shared the cross-country drive to California with my father while the moving truck made its way west. I had acquired my driver’s license in a hurry that summer, learning on small Massachusetts roads and only a few highways. On the cross-country drive I couldn’t accustom myself to the aggressive big rig truckers who would loom up behind me suddenly, ride my tail, flash their lights, and occasionally lean on their ear-splitting horns. It was hot and the car lacked air conditioning, but my father made sure we stayed in motels with swimming pools so we could recuperate after the long days on the road.
SAABs are not made for hot weather; they prefer long distances and lower temps. The engine began overheating whenever the route climbed significantly. We would pull over to the side of the road, pop open the hood as clouds of steam wafted up, wait for the engine to cool down, slowly add water, and continue on our way. By the time we reached the Rockies, we were well versed in the routine and had to repeat the practice multiple times to get over the passes. It was fabulously scenic, but incredibly annoying. I distinctly recall the smell of the engine boiling over.
Like the 99 from Sweden, my 900 was exceptionally dependable and comfortable for many years. In June1988 I drove to Atlanta with a friend to start our summer internships at the Centers for Disease Control (CDC). We took our time getting there so we could see some of the country and scoped out places off the beaten path that specialized in local cuisine. We took back roads on many occasions, particularly in the Southwest. Some of the routes were paved initially but soon gave way to rough and rutted dirt with plenty of rocks. We were usually the only passenger vehicle bouncing and jolting along on those back roads; pick-up trucks whizzed by, passing us in both directions. The SAAB elicited a great deal of scrutiny and interest. I was often asked what kind of car it was; people had never heard of or seen one before, inspecting it closely and shaking their heads.
Atlanta was not good for my SAAB. It was ill-suited to the stop and go traffic and heat of the South. Like our 99, the 900’s radiator was tetchy and particularly unhappy in those conditions. Every morning I drove to and from work, baking hot, wishing the incredibly long lights would change sooner. Without air-conditioning, I arrived sweaty and rumpled at my office. At the end of the day, having weathered arctic air conditioning in my building, I would idle in the traffic that clogged what were once meandering local streets. I watched with trepidation as the engine temperature indicator soared and the engine fan came on, praying for the radiator to behave. It felt as if my head were going to explode. By the time I reached home, I was drenched and spent after ping-ponging between temperature extremes.
During my internship I was hired into a full-time position at the CDC. I planned to spend a few years conducting my dissertation research in Atlanta. Given my travails with the SAAB, my father suggested we trade cars.
** (Saab manufactured planes before cars: Svenska Aeroplan Aktie Bolag, or Swedish Aeroplane Company, Ltd.).
The “Merkedees”
My father was delighted to acquire the SAAB, the perfect car for New England winters. In exchange he handed over his dream car, a 1967 230SL Mercedes sports coupe, a cream-colored convertible with a brown hard shell top. He had gone to great lengths to acquire it, enlisting his brother in Holland to purchase and ship it from Europe. The car was beautiful from a distance, but disintegrating. Rust was eating away at the body and time was taking a toll on the interior. What I didn’t know was that the internal organs were also unwell. The car needed repairs on a constant basis, and was often parked for weeks at a time with a mechanic my dad had found who was willing to labor over the relic.
My older brother offered to drive with me from New Hampshire to Atlanta. I tried to accustom myself to the low-slung seats, the clunky gearshift, and dodgy brakes. We switched off driving. It was nighttime, sheeting down rain, pitch dark, and slick on the roads. I became aware that my feet felt wet and was perplexed. I shone a flashlight at the floorboards and saw water pooled on the floor mats; the road surface and spray was visible through the rusted out floorboards. We shook our heads and wondered how our father could have been gullible enough to buy the car.
For the short time I drove the Mercedes, like the SAABs before it, the car elicited attention. It looked like a magnificent vintage automobile and was an uncommon sight in Atlanta, where people reverentially referred to it as a “Merkedees.” Not long after my return, I was out driving when an explosive sound emanated from under the hood and the car ground into and stuck in first gear. The engine had blown. It was more than a little challenging to drive it anywhere. I combed the yellow pages, made numerous calls, and finally located a garage that specialized in Mercedes.
Since I couldn’t get out of first gear I was relegated to a long drive on surface streets to reach the garage. The garage owner informed me that the engine would require rebuilding, the rusted body needed refurbishing, and the moldering interior had to be replaced. It would be a lengthy and exorbitant job. He offered to take the car off my hands and overhaul it (his specialty) in exchange for a working older Mercedes. I discussed the situation with my father; it didn’t seem we had much choice. I took the ugly brown boxy sedan. It was noisy, uncomfortable, had air conditioning that barely worked, little pickup or power, and poorly responsive brakes; it drove like a boat. The clunker required monthly repairs. I saw a lot of that garage.
The final SAAB story
After two years I reclaimed my SAAB and headed back to California, this time with Jim, my then boyfriend and future husband. We rented a truck to accommodate my furniture and belongings and an elevated trailer for the SAAB. It was tricky to maneuver the very long load. When traffic was sparse and the route was straightforward we could maintain a speed of 65. Once we reached Berkeley, unloaded, and went to return the rental, we noticed for the first time a prominent sign on the back of the trailer: Do not exceed 50 MPH!
Over the years the SAAB began falling apart, necessitating costly specialized parts. I stuck with it even as the hand brake began to fail (no amount of adjustment lasted). Since the car was a manual, this presented challenges when parking on an incline or stopping and starting partway up steep hills (of which there are many in the Bay Area). Sometimes I would lean the car gently on another vehicle’s bumper to get out of a parking space. With first one baby and then a second I had quite the workout torquing my body to access my sons in the back seat via the driver side door, sometimes lifting the car seats out complete with child when one or both of them had fallen asleep. Still, I hung onto the car. My husband routinely suggested it might be time to consider another vehicle. Eventually, I had to admit defeat. The car was on its last legs and I needed to move on. The boys solemnly requested I take photos and we bade a loving farewell to the old red SAAB. This marked the finale of owning used cars, but not of my car misadventures.
