rantlust

Posted by papi on February 13th 2007 in Auto, Raves, Roads
::  [Print This Post]

San Francisco is being invaded by Prius cars, and Noe Valley seems to be one of the frontlines of the invasion. A few days back, while walking around the neighborhood, I saw no less than 7 Priuses in one city block. I’m not kidding. Of the remaining half dozen, another two were Honda hybrids. Now, I’m as environmentally conscious as the next guy or gal, so I cannot see this proliferation of hybrid cars as anything but a good thing. Still, when I look at the plasticky, almost disposable looking exteriors of these cars of the future, I sometimes yearn for the iron monsters of the Detroit of yesteryear. Those were real cars, which looked every bit like metal spawn stamped out in the hellfire bowels of some smoke-belching factory behemoth. And then I think fondly of the first car I ever drove in America, the splendid Buick Skyhawk.

When I tell people I went to school in Detroit, they give me commiserating looks, as if I’d told them my dog just died. I could never figure out this response, because despite the muggings, the freezing weather, the chewed up roads, the shelled out abandoned buildings, and the freezing weather, I generally had a good time in the Motor City. Part of it was because I was too stupid to know any better. Then again, I had a good bunch of friends and even hell can be bearable in the right company. I should know. Alcohol helped too, and Mr. Daniels saw us through many a roach infestation.

Detroit is all about cars, of course. The big three US automakers are located there, and foreign cars are a rarity. I’ve often heard people talk about the Motown Sound, but to me the real Detroit sound was that of hip-hop booming out of a pimped out land-boat as it careered through downtown.

A few weeks after settling into our new digs on campus, my roomies and I were pleasantly surprised when a friend of a friend generously offered us a car for free. We were told it was a Buick Skyhawk – an impressive name, we all agreed. The cynics among us whispered innuendo about free lunches, but our collective optimism eventually won out, and we decided to go get the car. Our first surprise came when the owner told us that the car had been parked on some unfrequented side street on the edge of town, from where we would have to get it ourselves. The only person who had a driver’s license in the whole group was yours truly, and the only one brave enough to agree to enter the car with me was fellow blogger and mammarian-expert manish. We duly set out to find the car.

At first sight, the Buick was a monster. On second and third sights, she still remained a monster, albeit a familiar one. She had originally been a bright red, but age and exposure to the pitiless Detroit winters had worn her down to a bilious pink. There were patches of rust all over the car. The inside had red fake leather trim, with plush orange upholstery. She was a sight. There was a small crack on the windshield, and the doors had to be muscled open, but to us, she was a beauty. I inserted the key, turned it, and lo… the engine burst into life. Was this car really going to move? I eased it into drive, the cracked and weathered wheels turned over, and we were off. I turned onto Telegraph, the rest of the gang (including some regulars on this blog) in a car behind whooped and yelled, and we were cruising.

It did not take long for the dream to sour. A few miles down the road, Skyhawk coughed ominously a few times, and the engine went dead. I looked at manish, he stared back at me blankly and we took a few seconds to wrap our minds around the fact that we were sitting ducks in the middle of traffic on one of the busiest streets in Detroit, during evening rush hour. Cars were honking and swerving all around us, some getting within inches of side-swiping us, while I searched frantically for the hazard switch. Finally, I found it, and we sat back for a while, sweating and cursing. All the while, I’d also been trying to restart the engine, and after a few minutes (Hallelujah!) she reluctantly coughed back to life. We limped out of traffic and turned into the first available gas station. They also had a repair shop, and the mechanic, after a few incredulous questions to reassure himself of our sanity, promised to take a look at it. That initial setback cost us $250 which we could ill afford at the time, and was the beginning of a strange love-hate relationship with the Skyhawk that lasted a little over a year.

See… Skyhawk wasn’t like other cars. She had personality. With most cars, you pull the door and it opens. You turn the ignition and it starts. With Skyhawk, you’d pull the door and it wouldn’t budge. You’d pull some more and she would reluctantly let go a little at a time, until finally you had enough space to squeeze in. The ignition was the same. Some days she would start at the first attempt, while at other times she would require a lot of coaxing and screaming. Some days she would not make any sound at all, and would staunchly refuse to start, leaving the would-be-driver to curse his luck, and start the long hike to the supermarket (our most common destination.) This was usually on the coldest days of winter. The sense of wonderful uncertainty even extended to essentials like brakes. Stopping at red lights in the Skyhawk was an intimate dance with cardiac arrest, as she slowly drifted to a stop, like a hippopotamus wading through molasses. Luckily, the cops in Detroit considered running red lights a very minor offence. Anything less than multiple gunshot wounds was usually considered unworthy of their attention, a fortunate circumstance for us.

In the spirit of give-and-take, we survived with Skyhawk for over a year. Until the fateful day dawned when we decided to go outlet-mall shopping in Flint, and decided to use Skyhawk for the journey. The outlet mall in Flint was a favorite of ours, for various reasons (a whole blog entry in itself), but we usually begged rides with other car-owners, and never used Skyhawk. On that day, however, we were optimistic. She’d been unusually cooperative for the past few weeks, and the chances of her starting up twice in a row seemed high. We set out in high spirits. Skyhawk did not disappoint; she started on the first try and we were on our way. It was a glorious day, bright, sunny, and precious as such days are in Detroit. We had a good time eating, drinking and buying trifles at the mall, and then it was time to head back. Again (Glory!), Skyhawk started without a whisper of complaint, and we were soon on the I-75 heading back to Detroit. Then I had a momentary lapse of reason.

Skyhawk had a speedometer, you see. And it only went up to 90mph. Given her advanced years, and the spongy brakes, we’d never really tried to see what she could actually do if she had world enough, and time. I saw the opportunity, and could not resist. Deaf to the pleas of my fellow passengers, I floored the gas pedal, and set her free. For a long time, like a hawk that’s been caged for too long and unsure of its newfound freedom, she continued to just chug along at her usual 60mph. But then, the needle started to inch upwards. We watched, cheering and inwardly praying, as it crossed 70, 80… and finally, ended up jammed against the stop on the 90mph mark. I did not take my foot off the gas, so how fast she actually went remains a matter of conjecture, but the gods of 75 smiled on us, there was no traffic to impede her progress, and that needle stayed jammed against the stop till we came to the outskirts of Detroit. We were cheering, and the old girl responded magnificently. It was beautiful. Little did we know that in that blaze of glory, Skyhawk had flown her last. She never started again.

Shortly afterwards, I got another car, and then we never needed the hawk. After I graduated and moved to California, one of my friends informed me that she’d been towed to a junkyard, and her journeys were finally over. He told me, with a hint of accusation in his voice, “You killed her, you know that?” It was true, but what a way to go. I have no regrets. I only hope she gets a quiet corner of the junkyard, that the weeds grow gently through her steering wheel, and that no vandal tries to pry open her doors. She never did like that.