Posts filed under ‘cars’

How I Roll: Ride, Sally, Ride

Excerpt from a recent conversation:

“I never knew you had a Mustang. When was this?”
“Early nineties.”
“Why haven’t you done a blog entry about it?”
“Well, that was when my cars stopped being so crappy, so it’s harder to make them entertaining… although the roof did leak.”
“Was it a convertible?”
“No.”

And thus we have the return of the How I Roll series.

I don’t remember if we sold the gold Cavalier or not. Some cars are like old underwear. They just sort of eventually disappear. But I do remember the day my parents asked, “Would you want a Mustang?”

The only other time I remember anything close to this happening in my life was when I was nine years old. I had been outside playing in the neighborhood. When I came home, my parents were standing beside the carport talking. They asked me, “Would you want an Atari?”

Of course I wanted an Atari! There wasn’t even a question. That was like asking would you want to quit school, or would you want to visit the set of the Neighborhood Of Make Believe.

Likewise, there was no question I would want a Mustang. Especially considering my previous three cars had been a 1980 Monte Carlo, a baby blue Escort with louvers, and a gold four-door Cavalier.

Mind you, my parents asking would I want a Mustang did not equate to them buying me a Mustang. I made the payments. They just found it.

And so it came to pass that my fourth vehicle was a maroonish 1989 Ford Mustang. It was not a convertible. And it was not a 5.0. I was reminded of this when I got into a race with a Toyota Corolla one Friday night and only outran it by half a car-length. (“Oh yeah! Eat some of that 2.3 liter dust!”)

However, the Mustang was my first car equipped with power windows. At last, I didn’t have to feign power windows by inconspicuously cranking down the window without ever moving my shoulder.

More importantly, it was my first car with both fast forward and rewind buttons for the cassette player. Did it get any better in 1992? Not for me, it didn’t.

Then there was the day when Dana Scarborough turned to me in Fundamentals Of Public Speaking and said, “I thought you might like to see these.” Her perfect lips, dark sensuous eyes, long spiral-permed brown hair. It took me a few seconds to see the Mustang-related magazines in her hand. It was the first time I had ever been noticed for my car, in a positive light anyway.

I drove it for about two and a half years. Rumor had it that at the three-year mark, you were required to get a mullet, and I didn’t want any part of that. Besides, by that time, I had started craving a Jeep Wrangler.

I don’t remember a whole lot else about the Mustang. I remember the AC went out at some point. The handle on the glove compartment broke. Oh, and I ran over something coming home from work one night which dented up the plastic underneath the bumper pretty good. And of course, the roof leaked.

But only on the passenger side.

And only when it rained.

“I got a fuel injected engine sittin’ under my hood. Shut it off, shut it off, buddy, now I shut you down…”

September 28, 2007 at 4:57 pm 24 comments

Keep it between the lines

He would keep an unseen, steady hand on the steering wheel as the seven-year-old in his lap alternated between touching the pedals and looking out the windshield. The boy would ask to drive wherever they went. He would acquiesce to every third or fourth request. And when he did, the boy was on top of the world.

The rest of the time the boy would sit in the backseat and pretend his father was Mario Andretti, and the other cars his competitors. Every stop for gas or at a store was a pit stop. On his knees in the backseat, looking out the rear window, the boy would announce the race play-by-play, keeping an eye on the second place car.

“Don’t let him pass you, Daddy!”

Almost overnight, seven turned fourteen, and one day he let the boy drive his old baby blue Chevrolet truck around their backyard. It was a stick with no power steering and the boy didn’t know how to get it out of first gear. The ride was bumpy, but the boy was on top of the world.

Some days he would take the family car out to the new four-lane that was still under construction, and let the boy drive the stretches of blacktop from one barricade to the next. Slowly but surely, he could see the boy improving.

Then came fifteen and it was time. The two of them climbed into the family car. And as the boy cautiously pulled onto the two-lane road in front of their house, he sat in the passenger seat, offering advice. Telling the boy to line up the hood ornament with the edge of the road. Cautioning him if he got across the center line or too close to the mailboxes.

The boy was a bundle of nerves, not wanting to make a mistake, forever seeking his father’s approval. His hands were shaking slightly as he concentrated only on keeping it between the lines. It seemed the hardest thing for the boy to learn was to use his right foot for both the gas and brake pedals. That one would take a little while.

Meanwhile, sitting in the passenger’s seat, he would press his foot into the floorboard time and again in search of a brake pedal that wasn’t there. Somewhere amidst the pride and nervousness he felt, he thought about how they would only go thru this once. This rite of passage.

The boy would learn to drive, and then he’d be one step closer to being a man, to college, to marriage, to moving away, to real life. It took all he had sometimes not to reach over and grab the wheel.

Miles passed and almost without notice, the advice and words of caution grew less frequent. Full of pride, he looked over at the boy, smiled and said, “That’s it, son. You’re driving!”

Palms drenched with sweat and eyes never leaving the road, I was on top of the world.

“He’d say a little slower son, you’re doing just fine. Just a dirt road with trash on each side, but I was Mario Andretti when Daddy let me drive…”

June 19, 2007 at 1:40 am 23 comments

How I Roll: All that’s gold doesn’t glitter

(This is part three in a series.)

After driving a 1984 Ford Escort with louvers, one might think that, vehicle-wise, there was nowhere to go but up.

One would be wrong.

Enter the gold 1985 Chevy Cavalier. Yes, I said gold.

To this day, why anyone would purchase a gold vehicle eludes me. The only possible reason I’ve ever been given is that gold cars don’t show dirt as much.

I’ve seen a lot of car commercials in my time. They talk about horsepower and miles per gallon, and safety ratings, and towing capacity. I don’t ever recall a single commercial including the line “it also comes in gold, which doesn’t show dirt.”

I mean, do we really want to start basing our buying decisions in this country on this principle? If that’s the case, why not have women wear rust-colored wedding dresses? But I digress.

So there I am, age seventeen, cruising around in a gold, four-door 1985 Cavalier. Oh yes, it was a four-door. Convenient when you’re starting a family. Not so much when you’re a senior in high school and trying to get girls to date you.

There are places in this world–Luxembourg, the highlands of Iceland, and some tribes in Malaysia, to name a few–where if you send your child to school driving a four-door gold-colored car, they will arrest you and take your children away. And that’s how it should be everywhere. No amount of therapy can ever erase those scars.

The Cavalier was my second and final hand-me-down. As a general rule, if anyone gives you a car, it’s probably not going to be a top of the line high-performance vehicle. That’s why in the classifieds, you’ll see ads for things like a 1976 Vega that doesn’t run for $200. People are still trying to get something for it.

Still, I had high hopes at first. The Cavalier had been my Mom’s car, so I figured it had to be better than what I’d been driving.

It was not loaded. As a matter of fact, I would say it was the opposite of loaded, whatever that would be called. Manual locks, manual windows, no cruise control, no cassette player, etc.

It was also a four-cylinder, or at least at some point during its existence had been. By the time I finished driving it, I think it was closer to two-and-a-half or three cylinders.

I got my first taste of the Cavalier’s power, or lack thereof, just a couple of weeks after I began driving it. After a party one night, two girls who had left about the same time as me, pulled up beside me as if they wanted to race. So I floored it.

We were even for a few seconds. Then the Cavalier topped out… at 78 miles per hour. There I was, pedal to the metal, watching two girls in my senior class leaving me behind. They slowed down and when we got to the next red light, they were laughing. I was not.

I continued to drive the Cavalier–but did not race it anymore–most of my freshman year in college, where I commuted about 50 minutes one way. One spring day on my way home from school, the car started smoking, and sputtering worse than normal. I stopped and called Dad from a payphone. He came and followed me home, slowly. And I did not drive the Cavalier much longer after that.

“I parked my car beside the highway and I didn’t lock the doors. Left a note there with the keys. If it cranks, well friend, she’s yours…”

May 26, 2007 at 8:21 pm 19 comments

Mine games

I was perusing my last several posts earlier today and realized I don’t really do a lot of posts about my current life anymore. Most everything seems to either be a 24 recap, a piece of 3WW fiction, or a story from the past. I figure I can remedy that with a random post that’s all over the proverbial map.

The problem with my car did turn out to be the catalytic converter. The guy at the exhaust place was nice enough to tell me the catalytic converter was covered under warranty up to 80,000 miles. My car has 70-something-thousand miles on it. So even though I vowed to never take my car to the dealership again, I made an exception in this case, since it was free.

At work, the walking carcinogen I so fondly refer to as Smokestack is still requiring me to use copious amounts of Lysol. I’ve also discovered that in addition to spreading lung disease, Smokestack is a notoriously poor speller. This is only compounded by his affinity for leaving post-it notes lying around.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed he’d left a note for Big Sweaty on which he had spelled dairy, d-e-r-r-y. A couple of days later the secretary came in and told me he had spelled Wednesday, w-e-n-s-d-a-y, on his time sheet.

But the capper had to be when I came across a note he’d left for himself. It read:

“Thursday 8:45 AM – Meeting of the mines”

So now anytime Smokestack is talking to anyone, the running joke around the office is that they must be having a “meeting of the mines.”

Do you ever feel like you’re living that careerbuilder.com monkey commercial?

On the bright side, I already know what I’m getting him for Christmas: Hooked on Spelling! That is, if I haven’t contracted emphysema by then.

“Smoking in the boys room. Teacher don’t you fill me up with your rules. Everybody knows that smoking ain’t allowed in school…”

May 12, 2007 at 10:27 pm 25 comments

How I Roll: Part Deux

(This is part two of a series.)

Going from Piggly Wiggly to Food Fair may not seem like a big deal to most, but it was the first move of my career. It meant a higher wage, more hours, and at last, my very first car payment.

As I look back, I realize that my parents either found or handed me down my first four cars. I’m not sure if my Dad had some kind of connection with the crap car black market or what. But in the summer of 1989, the car they found to replace the Monte Carlo was a baby blue 1984 Ford Escort.

The Escort was Ford Motor Company’s finest economy car offering. Well, at least since the Pinto. It came standard with a 1.6 Liter sixty-eight horsepower engine, which is roughly the equivalent of three Husqvarna lawn tractors. Mine featured sport stripes down the side and louvers on the back window. Yes, louvers. Back when louvers were “in” of course.

Another feature of the ‘Scort was an equalizer for the AM/FM radio and cassette player. Now I don’t know if a previous owner removed the subwoofers when they sold the car or what. But the speakers I heard were standard factory speakers, at best. Which made the equalizer about as useful as an extended forecast.

Finally, the ‘Scort was stricken with SBD, or Squealing Belt Disease. If you’ve not experienced this personally, you’ve surely heard it from other cars. The one and only symptom of SBD is a high-pitched squealing noise, especially prevalent when the car first starts. It can be a bit embarrassing, especially for a 16-year-old in the high school parking lot. But after awhile, you learn to just turn up the radio and pretend you have no idea what everyone is staring at.

There were good times to be had as well. I had my first official pick-her-up-and-take-her-home date in the ‘Scort, with the Algebra teacher’s daughter. She was also the Physics teacher, which might help explain how I fell asleep at least two days a week and still got an A in the class.

We went out twice. Our first date, we stood outside her house until her Dad starting cutting the porch light off and on, and I ended up breaking my curfew, not getting home until around 1 AM. On our second date, we went to the mall. I bought a New Kids On The Block cassette. And we never went out again.

I was also driving the ‘Scort when I began dating Rachel, my first real actual girlfriend. Sometime in 1990, I wrecked the ‘Scort, rear-ending another car as I fiddled with my radio or gazed at the countryside or something. It was totaled. Not that it was a bad accident, but as the car only cost $1800 when I bought it, hitting a bird would have probably totaled it.

As I write these posts, I’m beginning to realize they are more about memories of myself and people from my past than they are about any one car. Still as I think back now, I can’t help but wonder, were louvers ever really in?

“You’re my popsicle. From the very first time I met you girl, you captured me…”

April 30, 2007 at 1:55 am 23 comments

"All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand…"

The title of this post is a quote from Steven Wright. It may seem random, and is, but I think it goes along well with the randomness of the post…

The Alabama football team’s annual A-Day game was Saturday. The game normally draws thirty to forty thousand fans. This year, with a new coach, new hope, and an unquenched thirst for a championship, they had to close the gates and stop letting people in early in the second quarter. Stadium capacity is a little over 92,000.

Even I was amazed at a crowd that large for what basically amounts to a glorified scrimmage. Still, it was a nice “tide” me over until the first game, which is now only 131 days away! Bama football fans are often called fanatical. And, well, we don’t really consider that an insult.

My Mom, sister, and I went. As we were about to enter the stadium, who do we see but my uncle, aunt, and two cousins. I mean, seriously, out of 100,000 people, what are the odds? I got my first sunburn of the year, sitting on an aluminum bleacher in the 80-degree Tuscaloosa heat for three hours.

Mom got tickled when the crowd started doing the wave. By the third time it came around, she couldn’t even stand up she was laughing so hard. It was great seeing her have fun. Even if it did lead my sister to remark to me, “We have got to get her out more.”

When I got home that evening, Pablo was swimming around. I mention this because it has become a rare sight. Although I haven’t written about it, I’ve been really worried about Pablo. He completely stopped eating two weeks ago and only comes out of his rock to get air, then goes right back in. Last Wednesday, I bought two kinds of fish medicine and some anti-fungus tablets at Wal-Mart, and started putting in his tank.

So when I saw him swimming around Saturday, I immediately tried feeding him. And he ate! For the first time in twelve days! I was as excited as I’ve been in a long time. And also hopeful that this means the medicine is working. I don’t know what’s wrong with the little fella, but I’m trying everything I can.

Saturday night, I drove over to Ben’s. Ben and I have been friends since first grade. The night my sister was born (at some absurd overnight hour), after I threw up in the ER waiting room, I wound up at Ben’s spending the night so that I could get to school the next day. These days, we don’t hang out that much or even talk too often since he got married. I think this was the first time I’d seen him since Festivus.

The house was alive with two kids, a one-year-old and a two-year-old, running crazy. His youngest was eating a banana popsicle. Part of it fell on the floor. He didn’t reach down and pick it up. Instead, he got down on all fours and ate it right off the carpet. Ben just laughed. It hit me in that moment that he was in love with his kids. What an awesome feeling that must be.

Sunday, I ran 4.5 miles, which is the farthest I’ve run since the 10K race last year. I’ve developed a new low-to-the-ground, low impact running style. It’s tougher on the thighs, but much easier on the knees. If you’re trying to visualize this at home, it may not sound like the most manly or aesthetically pleasing style, but it seems to be helping. This year’s race is May 19th. I’m hoping to better my time from last year, of course. I’m thinking of shooting for a nine minute mile pace.

In other news, I took my car to the mechanic today. It started hesitating and sounding like it was missing dying last weekend. At first, I thought (and hoped) I had just gotten some bad gas. But two cans of gas treatment and one can of fuel injector cleaner didn’t seem help. Nor did clutching the steering wheel, looking up at the stars, and saying, “Please, please, please start working.” Then I thought maybe some mobsters had mistaken me for the real Jason Morgan and filled my tank with sugar. But the mechanic said the catalytic converter is stopped up. That doesn’t sound too bad, although I haven’t gotten an estimate yet.

Finally, one of my favorite comedians, Steven Wright, is coming to Nashville!! He’s also supposed to be on Letterman tonight. Someone please remind me. (About Letterman, not the concert.)

“From Carolina down to Georgia, smell the jasmine and magnolia. Sleepy, sweet home Alabama, Roll Tide Roll…”

April 23, 2007 at 5:27 pm 25 comments

How I Roll

There are few absolute truths in an uncertain world. But perhaps this is one: You never forget your first.

How it felt to touch her. The nervousness and the uncertainty. Learning as you went. Realizing you could take her to places neither of you had been before.

I’m speaking, of course, of my first car.

It was February 1989. When I turned sixteen, my parents decided that I would get Mom’s car and she would get something newer. So there it was, a black 1980 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. And it was all mine.

Sure, she had a few miles on her. How many, I’m not really sure, because the odomoter had broken long ago. But I knew it had power. A 3.8L V-6 under the hood. Vinyl seats. Wire wheel covers. (Stop drooling.)

I’ll admit there were a couple of quirks, as there are bound to be with any old classic car. There was a slight hesitation problem with the accelerator. It did not exactly have the lightning fast response one would hope for. It took a little sputtering and three or four seconds before those 229 cubic inches of raw Motor City power would kick in.

The Carlo also featured an AM/FM radio with the always-popular-but-never-practical cassette player with fast forward only, no rewind. So if I wanted to listen to a song again, I would have to flip the tape over and try to guess at how long to fast forward it. What einstein came up with this brilliant bit of cost-cutting ingenuity? How much extra does it cost to put a simple rewind button on there?

Then there was the speedometer. Or lack thereof. I drove by RPM’s, much like NASCAR drivers do. Somehow I estimated that in high gear, 2000 RPM’s equalled to 55 MPH, which was still the speed limit on most roads here in 1989. I have no idea how close I was, but I never got a ticket in that car.

Last but not least, for some reason the car would not stop running for a few seconds after you turned off the ignition. And by a few, I mean anywhere from five to twenty. Many days I remember pulling up to the Piggly Wiggly (my first job), turning off the car, taking out the keys, and getting nearly to the door before it would completely stop. Ironically, when I would crack it back up and start to back out, it would go dead if I didn’t jam it from reverse into drive and give it gas all in less than 0.35 seconds.

There were good things about her, though. The cloth interior had come loose from the ceiling and hung fairly low. So, if I rolled the windows down, which I often did since the air didn’t work, the wind would give it this super-cool rippling effect. Kinda like horizontal drapes flowing in front of an open window on a windy March afternoon. (Much like those in George Michael’s “One More Try” video.) You might be surprised at how much attention this drew around town. Oh yeah! Everyone wanted to get a look at Bone in his sweet ride.

Oddly, I never had a date in that car. Talk about weird! Working at Piggly Wiggly, where my uniform consisted of a brown smock over a button-down shirt and one of those 80’s solid colored nylon ties, and driving that marvel of modern machinery, one would think the ladies would have been all over me.

I drove the Carlo for five or six months, until I got a new job at another grocery store and a raise to $3.85 an hour. Then I could afford to get my own car. But I will always remember the black 1980 Monte Carlo. After all, you never forget your first.

(I thought it would be fun to do a series of posts, writing about each of the cars I’ve had. This was, obviously, part one.)

“I drive fastly, call me Jeff Gordon. In the black SS with the navigation…”

March 29, 2007 at 4:19 pm 34 comments


About Me

Name: Bone
Age: 33
Location: Alabama, USA
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