#94: Here In My Car (Part 1)
A Story for Every Vehicle
I am not a car guy. My buddy Thom, who I have known since 6th grade, very definitely is.
In my close friend group that goes back 50 years now, Thom has always been the go-to guy for car questions. He is less a mechanic than a classic British sports car aficionado (though he did have a Toyota Supra for a while back around college days or soon after), but if you want auto advice, you ask Thom.
Which is why it gave me pause when he said to me recently, “I’m guessing at this point you’ve probably owned 2 to 3 more cars than I have – I find that amusing.”
That got me thinking. How many cars have I owned, I wondered? And how could a guy who believes he is good with money have bought even more cars - whose value drops the moment they drive off the lot - than his car-loving friend?
So I started to compile a list. The result, from a financial perspective, is embarrassing.
And while I have perfectly logical reasons for each and every purchase, all of which I will share with you in a moment, it is hard to argue that automobiles are not my financial Achilles heel (Odysseus shout-out!).
Happily, as often happens when we think about our former vehicles, the monetary shame was accompanied by lots of fun memories.
Let us begin.
Das Boot (used)
In 1983, my mom’s boss at the time, Kent, was fed up with what the state wanted him to pay to renew his tags for his 1977 Chevy station wagon. So an annoyed Kent walked into work one day, informed the staff that he refused to pay that fee and asked, “Who wants to buy my car?”
My mom did, for me, for $100.
Since her divorce in 1980, our home had only one vehicle. She worked, and I rarely drove it. I bummed rides from friends to my part-time jobs or even home from football practice, and whenever we went out, someone else drove.
Then, as my transfer from community college to Virginia Tech approached in the fall of 1984, my mom decided now was the time for wheels of my own– and came home and handed me the keys to what I quickly nicknamed, “Das Boot.”
Das Boot was big, made of solid steel and had rust clear through the metal on its lower side panels. There was a backward-facing rumble seat in the rear. The stereo was an 8-track.
It was perfect.
Das Boot was a beater, but I treated it like a new car off the lot. And over time I put some of my hard-earned part-time job money toward important improvements like a cassette deck player (to keep up with the changing technology) and a separate little equalizer (that I think someone gave me) below the dash that allowed me to tweak the sound in that cavernous hulk to a degree I don’t even have today in my 2022 Mazda.
Das Boot was the road trip car in college, ferrying friends to concerts in Roanoke (ZZ Top! Tina Turner!) as well as back and forth to home and to places like James Madison University.
Its moment of glory came one day in front of a Kroger, when I was a student at Virginia Tech. I pulled over and offered a group of 5-6 female students and their groceries at a bus stop a ride home. After all, I had the room.
They said yes. If that sounds crazy, it was a different time. [Note: Not THAT different, none of them ever called me later.]
I once had a front tire blow out on Das Boot at 70 mph on I-81 while going back and forth from school to home in Northern Virginia. Fortunately I was able to safely steer off to the side of the road, and the gang of students I was ferrying combined our car knowledge to change the tire and keep moving.
I also received my one and only (so far) ticket in that station wagon, when I took too long to get plates and was tagged at a local police drunk driver checkpoint (penalty: $20).
My favorite Das Boot story (sort of) is when one of my other long-time friends, Steve (he of Judds concert fame, see my substack #87) stood behind me as I tried to back Das Boot into a parking space, waving his hands and saying, “back, back” until I heard and felt the “thunk” of my car bumper hitting a barrier.
At which point Steve said, “That’s good!”
Das Boot was also the last car I did any meaningful maintenance on, replacing part of the exhaust system with my friend, Matt, and of course many oil changes. Back then, you could see and reach everything you needed to.
Ultimately, I sold Das Boot in 1986 for $400 – not a bad return on my first set of wheels.
1986 Honda CRX (new)
A few months after starting my first real job at a newspaper, I sold Das Boot. Filling it with gas was expensive and as a reporter, I drove a lot. Also? Stuff started failing.
One time the mechanical door locks (for you kids, that means the locks that required a key be inserted) jammed while I was on the job as a reporter at a local government building. I had to sheepishly ask one of my government sources to help me break into my own car.
Never again.
My brand, new white-and-gray CRX was a 2-seater, small and sporty with excellent gas mileage. It cost a little over $10,000. I never gave it a nickname.
Of all the cars I have owned, the CRX is the only one that has been towed. And it happened at the Pentagon. Yes, that Pentagon.
Back then, the most convenient D.C. subway (called the Metro) stop to where we lived out in the then-boonies was at the Pentagon.
On some weekends, my friends and I would park at the Pentagon and take the Metro all over the city. It was easier and cheaper than trying to find parking at different museums or parks.
One day I did this on a Friday, when I had already used my strict 40 hours a week as a reporter and had some free time. I steered the CRX into one part of the massive Pentagon parking lot, drove a bit to find an open spot and parked not far from the subway stop, as usual.
When I returned from my outing, my car was gone.
If you’ve never had your car disappear, believe me, it’s a weird feeling.
It starts with, wait, didn’t I park here? Then a look around, as you decide yes, I did, in fact, park here, panic slowly rising. Then you take a step back and, close to freaking out, say I definitely did park here, and my car is gone. Where the hell is my car?
I don’t remember who I asked, maybe a guard nearer the Pentagon itself. But someone told me that cars are sometimes towed from permitted spots at the Pentagon, and it turned out that I had somehow parked in a permitted lot. I never saw a sign.
In any case, the good news was that the Pentagon had its own impound lot. Better yet, it had its own, special care, padded tow truck so that just in case (it was explained to me) they accidentally hauled away the car of some power military or political person, the car was less likely to be damaged. [Note: Welcome to Washington, D.C.]
My problem was, the Pentagon’s impound lot was located on the exact other side of the Pentagon from where I stood. And I could not go through the Pentagon.
And so, I began walking.
Now, remember, it was the mid-80s, a different time. The fact that a solitary, balding citizen was trudging, for a long time, through parking lots and grassy fields around America’s military headquarters was almost surely watched, but no one rushed out to tackle me.
I just walked and walked and walked and eventually, found the lot. Where I paid the fee and my unharmed Honda was released.
The CRX’s other story of note was that late one night coming back after covering a county supervisors meeting, I was sideswiped at 40 mph by a drunk driver. After a couple of spins I ended up in the middle of an (empty) intersection. Thankfully no one was injured.
Ironically, the drunk driver, I learned later, was a colonel in the military. The Pentagon just would not let it go, I guess.
The CRX then faithfully took me to California on my “Go West, Young Man” journey, where it enjoyed a two-year residency. Then it ferried me to Indiana, for my graduate degree.
In 1993, in need of a more practical car with a back seat, I gifted the CRX to my stepbrother, Robby. He gave me the older, used car my mom had given him, and I traded that car in for a …
1993 Toyota Corolla (new)
This car was my ride for 17 years. Silver, cloth seats with roll up windows and four doors, nothing fancy, about $12,500. But the Corolla got me wherever I needed to be.
It was the victim of a hit and run in Muncie in 1994 or 1995, while I was at work at Ball Corporation. Kerry Shaw, the director of corporate graphics, came into my cube after lunch one day and said, “What happened to your car, man?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. Turned out sometime during the day, someone had (likely backed into and) hit the driver’s side door of my innocent car, which I had parked at the end of the center row of the Ball 3-section parking lot.
Just across the street from that lot was a music store with minimal parking, and I always thought someone who went there did it. No note, and no video from Ball’s “security cameras.” I had to pay for the repair, around $800 if I recall.
The Corolla also received the ultimate compliment from my wife’s grandfather, Joe. He had worked at a GM assembly plant for years, in a fiercely pro-American car region.
After we had a family dinner at a Muncie restaurant and had gone to our respective cars, Joe came over, leaned in my wife’s passenger window and asked, “Is the engine on?” Puzzled, I said it was. He paused then replied, impressed, “Huh, you can barely hear it.”
That car took me to Chicago, Florida, Cincy and, eventually, Colorado, when we moved there in 1998. It served me well until about 2010, when I sold it to the college student of a neighbor on my street for $2,700.
The college student attended the University of Hawaii. Her family shipped the car there.
I like to say that after almost two decades of faithful service, my Corolla got to retire in Hawaii.
1999 Chevy Blazer (new)
This one wasn’t for me. By 1999 I was married, and we needed to replace my wife’s old Pontiac Sunbird. Thanks to Grandpa Joe and others, she only wanted to look at GM products to replace it.
I, on the other hand, was a believer in Japanese reliability.
But it was for her, so a Chevy it was. It drove like a truck, and used gas like a truck. Cloth seats and perhaps electric windows, I’m not sure. It was basic.
We kept it a couple of years, but it wasn’t much fun to drive. And one day in 2001, we decided to look at other options.
I lured her to Nissan, with the help of the intoxicating scent of leather seats.
2001 Nissan Pathfinder (new)
This vehicle also drove like a truck and used gas like a truck, but it was much nicer inside.
And it was rated highly for reliability, so I had no issues.
We bought it ostensibly because we wanted something extra dependable and safe to ferry our first child, due in late 2001. The day we bought it was actually our original due date.
It was our first car with leather seats, which today, after owning many more vehicles, is the only option I concede I really like beyond a basic car.
The Pathfinder also had a nicer stereo, and a few dash displays we had never seen before. It felt fancier.
My wife loved it.
So for a few years we happily drove our Corolla (my car) and Pathfinder (my wife’s car).
Then we had a second kid.
2005 Honda Odyssey (new)
In the late 90s, I asked my company’s CEO for advice on when to sell stock options.
I had reached a level where I received options as part of my pay, but I didn’t really know how they worked.
He gave me a thoughtful response, then added that life happens and “sometimes, you just have to buy a minivan!”
I laughed at such a silly thought. We had no kids then. Picturing me in a minivan was ludicrous.
Cut to 2005, and the birth of our second child.
The Pathfinder had room for kids, but all the stuff we hauled around? Not so much. With two car seats and strollers and diaper bags, the Pathfinder was mostly full even before we made it to the store.
So I soon found myself behind the wheel of a dark red, 2005 Honda Odyssey.
And I liked it.
That thing drove like a car. It had tons of room (captains chairs in the middle row) and I had underestimated the convenience of side doors that slide open in tight parking lots.
It didn’t have AWD (and neither did the still-chugging Corolla), but we had lived in Colorado for years by then and the winters weren’t bad. It would snow, but it would also melt quickly, and the roads were usually plowed in any case.
So NOW we were set, at least until the kids started driving. Right?
Turned out that we were the Jon Snow of Colorado: We knew nothing.
In Part 2 of Dude, Where’s My Car? our auto-buying pace accelerates – but for good reasons. No, really, let me explain.