Remember your first car? I hope my 15th gets me to the finish line | Mike Strange
I have been in a fine relationship for four-plus years. Breaking up was hard.
We’d been a pair, comfortable in the day-to-day routines around town. Ah, the great road trips we made, the sights we saw.
But most good things come to an end.
There’s a new car in my garage.
I don’t know about Swedes or Brazilians, but we Americans consider our automobiles to be a member of the family. We have relationships with our rides.
Such it was with my Ford Edge, my first SUV. Alas, the time came to move on.
Now, I’m hoping to fall in love with my new partner, a 2020 Subaru Outback.
I’ll bet most of you readers could recite the list of your vehicles in chronological order. Aside from a few urban areas, we’re not a nation of train or subway riders. We’re drivers.
Like any type of relationship, not all rides are equal. We take great pleasure in some. Others are just a bucket of bolts, a way to get from Point A to Point B.
This is my 15th vehicle – all cars except the plain-Jane Chevy Colorado pickup truck that I inherited when my dad died. I kept it as a handy second option.
I almost killed my first car right out of the gate, summer of ‘68.
My folks got me a 1966 Mustang to take to college for my sophomore year. Before school started, there was time for a guys road trip to Daytona Beach.
First evening, I parked the Mustang right on the sand in a row with dozens of others. Who knew the beach was a parking lot?
Hours later, I’m at a dance club wooing a young lady when my pal Gary burst in and said, “Give me your keys fast!’’ The tide was coming in. My Mustang was the only car left on the beach. The Atlantic Ocean was lapping at the tires. Gary saved the day.
The Mustang and I lasted only a year. Bucket seats up front, tiny back seat. Impractical for a 6-foot-6 guy to do any, uh, courting of coeds. Mom took the Mustang. I got a ’67 Impala with ample room for, uh, courting.
Another Impala followed in time for a 1973 cruise into Canada. The brakes started grinding in Quebec − 980 miles from home. Our stopping ability deteriorated during the increasingly anxious drive back to Kentucky. The Impala practically coasted to a stop in front of the house.
Landing my first newspaper job in Middlesboro, Kentucky, in 1977, called for something sporty. At Van Slyke Volkswagen on Clinton Highway, I found it – a used stick-shift VW 411 painted highway-hazard orange with oversized wheels.
The 411 (this one had a knack for breaking down on I-64) was a rare bird, now long extinct. Mine died when I ran a stop sign and got T-boned.
The brand new Chevy Chevette that replaced it was the shoddiest car I ever owned. Good riddance. I replaced it with a new Toyota as soon as I arrived in Knoxville in 1983.
Next came a series of rides reflecting real-life status.
Marriage and parenthood: Dodge Caravan. Divorce: LeBaron convertible. Remarried and blended family: Dodge Intrepid with a back seat to fit three kids. Divorce: stick-shift Toyota Matrix (with surprising headroom).
A couple of sedans proved practical for transporting my elderly mother in her final years. The Ford SUV was my retirement self-reward.
I don’t enjoy breaking up. My hope is the Subaru gets me to the finish line. And that I learn to love it.
Mike Strange is a former writer for the News Sentinel. He currently writes a weekly sports column for Shopper News.
This article originally appeared on Knoxville News Sentinel: Remember your first car? I hope Subaru Outback goes the distance
