They have always been there, in reality, stories, always a part of my life.
A piece of technology that insinuated itself past spouse, past dog, past
sometimes even sex, into the soul stirring lust we feel sometimes when
we see one. A smell, a glimpse of a curve of body or a photo of one laid
spread out before us lets us know who we are. What we like, what
we want...
So I
drive down a memory lane of myth and reality. Here are some of the things
dreams are made of....
A car I've never seen, glimpsed briefly in a picture. '32 (or '36 Cord,
a rum runner's car) my grandfather owned. Burgundy. My mom said it was
fast and that she hid her dolls in the flip up armrests used to hold bottles.
No picture as of yet.
A '54
Chevy Bel Air. Mom learned to drive in one, a hardtop she got my uncle
to teach her to drive.
This
one was probably my Granfather's or his; Mom's about 12.
She
looked good in it.
'70 Plymouth
Duster
My first
car (not the first driven, but first owned) was a '70 Plymouth Duster.
Here's the back story:
My first
(yes, first) wife had an '86 Buick Regal that I just couldn't stand. T-tops,
automatic, tape deck and great sound. For some reason I thought it had
no soul; an appliance at best. Then it bit me. I started taking tapes out,
popping the tops and grooving on it. She came in one early morning in tears
and me, half asleep, asked what was up. I thought she'd been attacked or
something. "My car's gone!" "So?" More tears. I took her to the police
station and as she was filling out the paperwork the desk sergeant asked
me what kind of car. I told her. Uh oh. A favorite with thieves, she told
me. Probably in pieces as we spoke. So there was little chance of finding
it. Plus no theft coverage. So it was a goner. My brother in law called
a couple o days later to tell me that a guy he worked with had a car and
would I be interested? The car, the guy's first, was sitting in front of
his house. Parked for 6 months. It would have cost him $50 to get it towed
to a junk yard. So I went out, Pops and I got it started, I gave the guy
$25 and I had a car. On the way home was one of the scariest rides ever.
No windshield wipers in the pouring rain. No defroster in the humidity.
Bald tires, leaf rear suspension. "The Bomber" became its nickname. It
always started, was very unbeautiful and I loved it. Freedom. I always
said you could leave it running with doors open and a $20 on the dashboard
and no one would ever steal it. If the cops caught you it would be too
embarrassing, with the cops laughing at you. My wife felt no connection
with it and thought it would leave her stranded, so started to get on my
case about getting a real car. My best friend and I would go to the beach
for the day, then jump in covered in sand and oil and not care a bit. Finally
she got sick of it and made me take it to my mechanic, who had an '85 Nissan
Sentra for sale. He actually gave me $400 towards it on the Bomber.
I saw it around often, having become the delivery car for a pharmacy. Then
she was gone and I still miss her (the car, not the wife) She was beautiful
in her soul.
Blue
with a great sound system, my first stick and long distance car. 4 cylinders,
no power. I perfected a move for hills where I'd shut off the air conditioning
and downshift for more power. It was ok. Good stereo, a little soul. Taking
her to the train station one day before work, I pushed her engine four
inches off the mounts by hitting a Vista Cruiser station wagon who'd jumped
a stop sign. Getting out, ok except for a bruise across my chest from the
seat belt, I went over to the other driver to see if he was ok. "You fucked
me up." he said. "What?" was all I could manage, that was a stop sign.
Stop signs mean stop. I had the right of way."
"You
fucked me up. I just got my driver's license and now my insurance is going
to go up." I started to laugh, real hard. Incredibly, it saved this asshole's
life, according to my sister, an EMT who came to the scene when I called
her. I had planned a big weekend upstate and now had no car. Otherwise
the cops would have found me banging this guy's head on the dashboard.
When I took the insurance check to a Nissan dealer, the first thing, the
very first thing the saleswoman said was "It has excellent protection in
a crash. I doubled over laughing, as my wife told her "Yeah, he knows.
If he lives they just write him a check." The next stop was Honda. I was
looking at an Accord, a nice safe family kind of car. My wife called me
over. She was sitting in a black CRX. I fell in love.
Started
out red, then was yellow 
'88
Honda CRX
Ah,
my CRX. I was going back to school, I wanted a new car and once I saw one,
that was it. I bought a red one; the salesman, who had one, was stunned
that I didn't even want to test drive it. Every time I went back, he'd
offer his keys. But I knew. I knew it was the one. After picking it up,
at one point on the way home, I waved goodbye to my sister and was having
a cup of coffee with my mom 15 minutes before she showed up. She said,
"You waved goodbye, then you were GONE!" I had to see what she'd do. She
flew. One of the fastest cars I'd ever driven. With a sip of gas in the
tank she'd do 120. I found that out taking my best friend upstate to by
a leather jacket. "Smooth ride," he'd commented, "Very conformable. What'll
she do?" "I don't know. Let's find out." We did, breaking the NYC-Saratoga
run record, one held dearly in my family. Shattering it really.
She
took me everywhere. Surviving my divorce, break ins and such, she took
me cross country a couple of times. Survived dirt roads, living on a mountain,
120 degree desert temps and almost anything I threw at her. My mistake:
after wrecking and rebuilding her the last time, my mechanic asked what
color I wanted to paint her. I pulled out a piece of my first sportbike's
fairing (see below) and said this. Mustang yellow. Brightest yellow in
the world. But on a sportbike you want to be seen. When doing 80 on a highway
and noticing the glances from other drivers it hit me. I'd lost all stealth
capability! If they were noticing me what chance would I have with the
cops. The CRX was made to be driven fast. I was sad when I sold it, but
it stayed in the family. I'm sure there will be another in my future.
1973
MG Midget
When
I started to see the woman who became my second wife, she told me that
to keep her from coming to NY, her dad had taken her to a car place and
she fell for a MG Midget, one of the last produced. She didn't get the
car. Otherwise she never would have come to NY and met me. I told her she
should have got the car and then road tripped to NY.
When
I wanted to pop the question, I found an ad for one and said to her, "I
can buy you an engagement ring, or I can buy you an MG." We went that night
and bought it, turning down an offer from two guys to walk away from it
for $300! Hindsight, we should have taken the money. But was fun while
it lasted. I met a guy in the neighborhood who grew up fixing British cars
so parts were easy, and another guy who helped me get her running. One
day out road testing it we hit a huge puddle that came over the top and
flooded it (and us) out. In one of the worst parts of Brooklyn. I gave
a homeless guy a couple of bucks to push start us and we raced home for
our lives. We sold it to out mechanic friend for a dollar. We had no time
for it and it had to go. Primitive was the best way to describe the MG.
At 35 it felt like 100, and sounded like it.
1983
Volvo GXE
Ahh,
the car I'd said I'd never drive, or even look at. Sunroof, power everything.
When my mom bought it I told her, after thinking about all the cool cars
that she'd owned, to not even mention this safety over style abomination
to me. I trashed the CRX about the time she died and my stepdad gave it
to me. I wanted to drive it in a mask, so no one would recognize me. It
got me places in style, though, and I always said that it would pull over
at garage sales without me driving it (a la "My Mother the Car"). A cracked
cylinder block (possibly Volvo's worst engine) put it out of my misery.
But somehow I miss it.
1988
Chevy Cavalier
A box
with wheels. A good hauler that wouldn't die. Reliable and soulless. Gave
it to a teacher, thus ending the Ted/Mom/Me trilogy.
And Now,
my other passion:
bikes
