I have been in a good relationship for over four years. Breaking up was hard.
We had been a couple, comfortable in the day-to-day routines around the city. Oh, the great road trips we took, the sights we saw.
But most good things come to an end.
There is a new car in my garage.
I don’t know about Swedes or Brazilians, but we Americans consider our cars to be members of the family. We have relationships with our attractions.
So it was with my Ford Edge, my first SUV. Alas, it was time to move on.
Now, I hope to fall in love with my new partner, a 2020 Subaru Outback.
I bet most of you readers could recite your list of vehicles in chronological order. Apart from a few urban areas, we are not a nation of rail or tube commuters. We are drivers.
Like any type of relationship, not all journeys are created equal. Some of us really like it. Others are just a bucket of bolts, a way to get from point A to point B.
This is my 15thth vehicle: All cars except the Jane Chevy Colorado flatbed that I inherited when my father died. I kept it as a useful second option.
I almost killed my first car right out of the gate in the summer of ’68.
My folks bought me a 1966 Mustang to take to college my sophomore year. Before school started, there was time for a road trip to Daytona Beach.
The first evening, I parked the Mustang right on the sand in line with dozens of others. Who knew the beach was a parking lot?
Hours later, I’m at a dance club wooing a young lady when my friend Gary bursts in and says, “Give me your keys quick!” The tide was coming in. My Mustang was the only car left on the beach The Atlantic Ocean squealed the tires Gary saved the day.
The Mustang and I only lasted a year. Bucket seats in front, small rear seat. It’s not practical for a 6-foot-6 guy to do any, uh, courting college students. Mom took the Mustang. I have a ’67 Impala with plenty of room to, uh, party.
Another Impala followed in time for a 1973 cruise to Canada. The brakes started grinding in Quebec, 980 miles from home. Our ability to stop deteriorated during the increasingly anxious drive back to Kentucky. The Impala practically stopped in front of the house.
Landing my first newspaper job in Middlesboro, Kentucky in 1977 required something athletic. At Van Slyke Volkswagen on Clinton Highway, I found it: a used stick-shift VW 411 painted orange with big wheels.
The 411 (this one had a knack for breaking down on I-64) was a rare bird, now long extinct. Mine died when I ran a stop sign and got boned.
The new Chevy Chevette that replaced it was the most neglected car I have ever owned. good release I replaced it with a new Toyota as soon as I got to Knoxville in 1983.
Then came a series of rides that mirrored the state of real life.
Marriage and Parenthood: Dodge Caravan. Divorce: LeBaron convertible. Remarried and blended family: Dodge Intrepid with a back seat for three kids. Divorce: Stick-shift Toyota Matrix (with amazing headroom).
A couple of sedans proved handy for transporting my elderly mother in her later years. The Ford SUV was my retirement self-reward.
I don’t like to break. My hope is that the Subaru will take me to the finish line. And that I learn to love him.
Mike Strange is a former News Sentinel writer. He currently writes a weekly sports column for Shopper News.
