Performer: Heart
Songwriters: Roger Fisher,
Nancy Wilson, Ann Wilson
Original
Release:
Little Queen
Year: 1977
Definitive
Version:
None.
I’m
one of those guys who, when he buys a car, drives it into the ground. To me, a
car is a means of transportation, not a status symbol, so I don’t need a new
car every three years. I just want something that runs well and gets me good
gas mileage.
That’s
what I thought I was getting when I got my Mazda GLC in 1984. It had received
good reviews, but my car turned out to be what I refer to now as the Gigantic
Lemon Car. It cost $8,500, and I came close to putting that much more into it
in repairs. I replaced the starter motor in upstate New York, the alternator
twice in two different states and the transmission three times, in three
different states—Indiana, Illinois and Michigan.
When
I dropped my transmission the second time upon my return from Colorado in 1989,
I then dropped $1,500 to have it repaired, because I didn’t have a choice. I
made only $17,000, so it wasn’t as though I could get a new car, but I probably
began to think about it then. A year later, when my accelerator pedal got stuck
in Flint (good ol’ No. 314), I really began to think about getting a new car. I
didn’t quite have enough saved up though, so I wanted to get one more year out
of the Tragic Mazda. I didn’t quite make it.
A
blown starter motor in Bloomfield, New York was survivable although it cost me
two days on my vacation trip to Cooperstown. But a few months later, my
transmission crapped out for the third time. By now, I was such an old hand at
blown transmissions that I knew what the problem was as soon as it happened.
The new experience this time was the repair itself.
My
second transmission replacement came from Motra in Mount Prospect, and it had a
lifetime warranty on their repairs. The good news was I wouldn’t have to pay
the big bucks for another transmission.
The
bad news was the warranty was from Motra, which was in Illinois, so I couldn’t
just have my car towed to one of its shops. Sure, it honored the warranty … as
cheaply as possible. Instead of sending a compensatory check either to me or
the garage to where my car was towed, Motra said it would send parts, which
thrilled my mechanic in Flint to no end, as you might imagine.
As
a result of Motra’s cheap-ass warranty solution, my car, which I needed for
work, because I lived out in the sticks, was out of commission for weeks. All
the while the two garages fought it out between them and dragged me into the
middle to get Motra to do something while keeping the garage in Flint at bay.
I
also had to rent a car for two weeks for transportation. Needless to say—but
I’ll say it anyway—there was no recompensation for those charges. I doubt
anyone shed a tear when Motra finally went belly up years later.
Well
that’s all good and well, but when I finally drove my car out of the garage,
that was that. I couldn’t wait a year after all. I needed a new car NOW.
The
first thing I did was get my finances in order. I didn’t have enough saved up
in the bank to pay cash, and I didn’t want a monthly payment with interest, so
I went to the one place where I could get a desirable rate—the Bank of Dad.
I
explained my predicament, that I didn’t have all the cash, but I could raise
the rest within a year, perhaps less. He said he’d be able to cover me on a
zero-percent interest loan. Awesome.
The
next order of business was the type of car, and this was a no-brainer: After all the transmission headaches and expenses of the past three years, I
wanted a car that had a manual. Maybe I was too hard on my
car, but I was gun-shy. Manual transmissions don’t break down nearly as much,
because they aren’t as complicated. Besides, those cars were less expensive and
typically got better mileage than automatics.
Only
one problem: I didn’t know how to drive a manual. I’d done it, twice, when I
was a lot younger, but I couldn't say I knew how. I might as well have been a neophyte. That’s where my little
sister came to the rescue.
When
I went home for Christmas for the first time in three years in 1990, Jin took
me out in her car to an empty factory on the west side of Columbus and taught
me how to drive a stick. Well, she showed me what to do, as I lurched around
the parking lot, but I can’t say my education was complete. At least I got it to
the point where I didn’t stall the engine every time I started in first gear.
But
I wasn’t to be swayed. A stick was my destiny, and my destiny would be arriving
soon. Now all I had to do was pick the actual car.
(To be continued)
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