Sometimes it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey itself that creates the most memories. For my earliest excursions, I typically remember the vehicle itself, so I want to share some stories about the cars that took me on my earliest adventures.
The first vehicle I ever owned was a 1978 Oldsmobile Starfire Firenza, which my mom purchased for me when I was sixteen. Even though the car was only ten years old when I got it, it felt like it had been around the block a few thousand times too many.
That car was truly the worst, but it was also the best. It had a V-8 engine and was super fun to drive, but it had many minor issues, with one of its more notable quirks being the unpredictable behavior of its driver’s door. Sometimes the door would lock, sometimes it wouldn’t, and often it would swing wide open on a turn because it was entirely too bored to stay on the latch. I would have to remember to hold onto the Firenza’s door whenever I turned, but I would more often than not forget to do that.
The heavy door falling off its hinges was a constant annoyance, but I always looked forward to winter because that was when the Firenza would act as if life was too much for it. When it got too cold outside, the car would dramatically express its displeasure. It would behave calmly as long as I kept my speed under 50 mph, but anything over 51 mph would send the speedometer into a conniption. The dial would leap into that no-man’s land beyond 110 mph and stay there until I dropped under 50 mph again. Not knowing how fast I was ever truly going while on the highway in winter was one thing, but listening to the dial make its god-awful buzzing noise while it was throwing its fit was an entirely different experience.
The only way to drown out the speedometer noise was to fill the car with a competing sound, which meant blasting the music out of my 8-track tape player. Yup, that car still had its original 8-track player, so I was a bona fide hipster well before being a hipster was trendy. Having an 8-track player in the car did pose its share of problems, though, because I could only find 8-track tapes at Goodwill. The tapes were usually only 25 cents apiece, but even at that price, I was wasting my money because it didn’t take me long to realize there were no good 8-track tapes to listen to. The ’70s were a decade of some seriously bad bands, and the only artist I found worth a quarter was a musician who went by the name T-Rex. I think that I bought all the last remaining T-Rex 8-track tapes in the greater Milwaukee area, which amounted to all two of them, and it turned out that he wasn’t even that good to listen to on full blast, mainly because his music was way too mellow.
After the Firenza, I drove around a most uncool Buick Regal. My mom thought I needed a safe car to drive, so she chose the one that generally appealed to 80-year-olds who needed to give up their license. I went from super cool to super lame in an instant. I did, however, have to admit that the Regal was a much more comfortable ride, and I never once worried about falling out of it. I was unable to appreciate the practicality of being a Regal driver, though, but my brother apparently could because he kept that car forever and claimed it was the best vehicle he ever owned. Kudos go to him for recognizing a dependable vehicle when he saw one because I possess an incredible knack for holding on to the junky ones.
When I moved to San Jose, California, I scoured the classifieds and bought the cheapest car I could find, which ended up being the worst 1978 powdered-blue Mustang still on the road, which quickly earned itself the nickname The Ghost Rider.
Ghosty was a perfectly fine car to drive around in the daytime, but Ghosty was a pain in the butt to drive around at night. Whenever I turned on the headlights, the battery would drain and cause Ghosty to lose all its momentum. I discovered the art of ghost riding when I learned that the battery would recharge whenever I turned the headlights off. A few miles of driving in the dark usually got Ghosty back up to speed, but the power would only last so long after turning the headlights back on. This created a constant process of turning the headlights on and off just to drive the damn car, and it was more than super annoying; it was super dangerous.
I essentially drove around flashing my lights at people, and they always thought I was asking them to move out of my way. It probably made no sense to anyone why I would never pass them and then inexplicably go completely dark behind them. I was the strangest car on the road, and I always felt like apologizing to everyone for my reckless abuse of road courtesy. I eventually got so used to driving without the headlights on that it just became easier to pretend that Ghosty didn’t have them. It was only when Ghosty started pulling similar shenanigans during the daytime, such as downshifting itself to a leisurely 40 mph on the freeway and refusing to go any faster, that I decided it was time to let The Ghost Rider go.
I sold Ghosty to someone for $500, but that buyer brought the car back the next day and demanded a refund. The last thing I wanted was to have that powder blue goblin sitting in my carport ever again, but 24 hours after I thought that I got rid of it, Ghosty boomeranged right back to me. I had no place to park it, though, as a cherry-red 1991 Suzuki Samurai that I had yet to learn to drive because it was a stick shift was already parked in its place. As a final act of defiance, The Ghost Rider wouldn’t even start when I wanted to enjoy the experience of driving it to the junkyard. I had to pay $50 for a tow truck to carry it away on a chariot like a spoiled princess.
The Suzuki Samurai was the first car I ever bought with a loan. I couldn’t really afford it, but I wanted it so badly that I was willing to work longer hours to pay for it. I loved driving that car, but it was a real hassle to own. It was a hot-wiring magnet, and I lost count of how many times I couldn’t start my car because someone tried stealing it. The wires were always so screwed up that it made my car hot-wire-proof, but it did mean that I was on a first-name basis with the mechanic at the car shop who would routinely replace my steering column.
I was always the slowest car on the road in the Samurai because that four-cylinder glorified golf cart lacked any oomph. Other drivers absolutely hated it when they got stuck behind me on the huge mountain road to Santa Cruz because my looks were deceiving. No one ever assumed that I drove even slower than the slowest semi-truck until it was too late for them to go around me.
Sometimes, though, I would throw caution to the wind and drive the Samurai to San Francisco. I don’t know why I allowed myself to drive it there because that car should never have been allowed to stop at a red light on one of those freaky hills. That car despised doing inclines, but apparently taking it there was something my 19-year-old idiot self thought was a perfectly sane thing to do. I must have been a better driver back then or just incredibly naive because there’s no way in hell I would drive around San Francisco in a Samurai today, as I’m pretty sure I would see most of that city while rolling down backward.
I’ve burned through quite a few junky cars over the years, but the last one I want to mention is the incredibly shitty 1995 Ford Probe I used to own. This car was pivotal in making me never want to buy a used vehicle again; however, I don’t always have that luxury. It was during my time with this car that I learned about strut mounts, timing belts, ball joints, tie rods, and water pumps, and a slew of other things. This was the car that temporarily made me an expert on all things automotive.
Ah, vehicles. What would I do without them? If only I could live in Europe and find out.
If you want more expanded versions of some of these car stories, please check out my book Memory Road Trip! (e-book, paperback)
Krista Marson 