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Oh, on I burn, fuel is pumping engines. |
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Burning hard, loose and clean.
My first car was a piece of rubbish. It accelerated like a whale on ketamine, and cornered like a boat, leaning heavily into the tiniest of curves. My passengers would complain of being seasick, it listed so badly. The keen bit about the boatlike suspension was that the ride was actually quite comfortable if you were running at a safe, grandmotherly pace of 25 mph. If you pushed it, it bounced like it was equipped with hydraulics. The interior was a nasty blue vinyl, which was cold in winter, and covered with the top three layers of my skin during summer. It smelled very strongly of Pina Colada, due to my having left a scented air freshener on the dashboard one summer. The interior, sad to admit, was then covered with a leopard print motif, solely because I found it humorous.
The chassis was cast iron, as was most of the bodywork, with the exception of the shiny tat of 4 plastic hubcaps from Target. It was a nigh-indestructible tank. The front had been struck by an errant 2x4 on the freeway, and all it caused was a small crack in the fiberglass grillwork. I'd be tempted to call the car a beast, but it wasn't in the least bit beastly. It was more like a turtle. Hard-shelled and ponderously slow. Some creature to which the concept of cornering, or even going above a set speed limit, was completely foreign, and possibly offensive. It was made for wafting along, gracefully sloshing over each bend and nook in the road, with the windows down, and the stereo off. Because it had one speaker, in the center of the dash with the output rating of a tin can with a mouse inside.
So, the car was something less than spectacular. Yet, when it died an untimely death full of steam and burst innards, I was sad. It was like losing a member of the family. An old, faithful dog, or perhaps a comedic uncle who everyone quite liked. We almost held a funeral. Why was there such attachment to what was obviously, well, a crap car? To put it simply, the car had personality, it had a soul. And therein lies the problem. Where did that go? When did automotive manufacturers forget that crucial piece of car design, the personality? A car is supposed to illicit feelings from the owner, hopefully something slightly more deep than "It's blue." or "It's not entirely horrible to look at."
Yet, somewhere in the last 20 years or so, this seems to have gotten lost in the shuffle. Cars ceased to be a method of expression, and became a simple travel device. A good automobile is supposed to warp time, to blur the lines between point A and B, and make travel something of an event. To make distance seem only a trivial factor in the art of travel. Now we've got four thousand little econo boxes that look exactly alike. And the ******** Prius. The only automotive statement made in twenty years, and it's "I'm an utter p***k, with illusions of being eco-conscious"
So, if the soul and personality doesn't roll off the assembly line, it has to be added by the consumer. However, it's exceptionally hard to add personality and soul to any of these brand new cars. "What color can I have?" One of six. "how can a personalize my vehicle?" The same ways everyone else can, with 10 little options for mud flaps, sun visors, or a teeny chrome bit and bob here and there. Not to mention that you're adding them all onto small somewhat ovoid shaped lumps of aluminum, almost no matter which car you're buying. Otherwise, it's a rather boxy lump. Or, a boxy lump with some ovoids. Or an ovoid with some boxy.. You get it.
So, it's not all a matter of adding useless tat to your car. Sure, a 1987 Chrysler lebaron with a gigantic plywood spoiler has a personality, but it's the same personality that a fat man in a track suit has. Not exactly an appealing one. Pears aren't aerodynamic. Then again, no one in the parking lot will confuse their car for yours. In fact, no one will park near you.
Last week I got to test a car with personality simply running out of the tailpipe. A 1974 Chevy Nova. It's old, so it's got the trappings of age. A trunk full of random odds and ends, including a fishing pole the owner had forgotten about. A freshly rebuilt 350ci V8, that's been fiddled and tweaked and massaged to give a low grumble at idle, and a scream of manly proportions when you give it a bit of a push.
The exterior has seen some better days, but is overall in quite good keep for the year and for living in Colorado. The interior was redone several years ago, and is now wrapped in thick black leather. The seats are grand thrones keeping you pinned not with bolsters or support, but by one of those early ratcheting seatbelt systems. Just getting buckled in is an event, a casual game of tug-of-war. One with enough vigor to make you go "Screw it, I'll just fly through the windshield, then." And I loved it.
That is personality. That is a car with a soul. It's the quirks that keep a car nestled firmly in that warm place in your heart, and make it feel like a member of the family. After a while, you don't even notice the quirks anymore, until somone else tries to drive the car, and ask why there's duct tape across the windshield wipers, and why the gearshift must be put in L2 before engaging reverse. In the end, what keeps your possessions yours, and what makes them perfect, are the imperfections and the early evolution of the breed.
Oh, and on I burn,
Turning my direction,
Quench my thirst with gasoline...
 Twistex · Tue Apr 01, 2008 @ 07:31pm · 2 Comments |
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Ah yes. My 1987 Chevy Celebrity was the epitome of crap car too.