My step son got his first car.
He brought it over to show us today. A 1991 Chevrolet Cavalier.
It looks, rides, runs like a first car does for a 17 year old; a little on the rough side. But I don’t think he could’ve been more proud. His mother as well.
It makes me think of my first car. A late 70’s Camaro. Nothing fancy, nothing powerful, and it definitely would prove to have a few mechanical issues. The odometer read 99,500 miles. And that was back when 100K was the supposed death sentence for a car.
It would keep running until the day I traded it in. Albeit with a repaired tranny, replaced heads, and many hours tuning and fixing all the auxiliary parts and pieces. I even broke the shifter cable and learned to shift gears on the automatic transmission by turning the steering wheel housing. It became natural for me, but it would freak anyone riding with me.
But it was my car and it was my first.
I put a lot of miles on that car. A few road trips and a few tickets. I loved it and it was only the available Corvette that drew me away from it.
I would never buy that car today. I’m too adult, too responsible, too cerebral. The gas mileage would be too low. The insurance cost would be too high. The back seat would be too small and barely bigger than the ridiculous trunk. The high miles would be a concern; a little more than the concern about maintaining the Burgundy paint. There would be no sense to it.
I’m sure glad I wasn’t me back then.