Cars and casualties

I've always been one of those people for whom the act of driving sheer joy. Give me a car with a radio or CD player, the open road, and a destination, and I am fulfilled. I *love* to drive. I love to be on the road and going somewhere. I find joy in being in the drivers' seat of a car with music blaring and my heart pumping. Going, moving, driving ~ it all makes me happy ~ having a car represents a great degree of freedom for me.

Granted, I don't particularly care what kind of car I drive. Not one for brands in general, I just can't be bothered with the distinguishing features of a Ford vs. Chevy. And the BMW, Jaguars', Hummers, or Mercedes of the world are a bit wasted on me. The concept of luxury just doesn't factor in to my thinking in regards to vehicles. My criteria: Does it run? (and, now that I am a mother): Is it safe for children? OK ~ then let's go! This laissez faire attitude may explain why I currently own a Kia, and also why my automobiles tend to come to rather fantastical, and sometimes fiery, ends.

This love affair with the road and ~ by extension ~ the cars in which to drive upon the road, began early. My adventures in automobiles has quite a legacy to it. You see, I tend to literally drive cars into the ground (no fault of myself, naturally). And I think I may be one of a rare few people on the planet who has actually been driving their car when it a.) fell apart and b.) burst into flames. It has been a fun ride so far.

My first car was a rather forgettable Honda something-or-other. It lasted just long enough to graduate high school and then literally fell apart in abruptly cartoonish fashion: while driving to the market, a portion of my bumper fell off on one block with a "clang!". Shortly thereafter, my taillight plastic fell off somewhere on the next block and was summarily (if accidentally) run over by the car behind me. I managed to litter the entire route to the market with various metal, plastic, and wire parts that fell off my car in rapid succession. By the time I coasted into the parking lot of the supermarket, my little Honda no longer resembled a vehicle, exactly ~ it looked more like a mangled heap of metallic light blue metal scraps. I called my Mom for a ride home, and we had the remains of the former car towed to the salvage yard.

This was my second car:
Yes, it was a YUGO. It did represent a definite step up from my Honda p.o.c., in that it was operational. Usually. However, as a rule of thumb, Yugoslavia is not known for its outstanding quality imported automobiles. This little thing resembled an animal cracker box on wheels, and managed to both rattle and shake at any speed greater than 40 m.p.h. My friends called it the "Blue Bomber", which was sadly, fitting. It had all the acceleration power of a bicycle with two flat tires. When I drove uphill, it was not uncommon for me to be passed by street sweepers, big rigs, and the occasional marathon runner. And indeed, when driving this automotive masterpiece, one would not have been surprised to see Fred Flintstones' Feet sticking out from underneath the bottom, spurring it along at a dizzying, Nascar-worthy top odometer speed of 65 m.p.h.

This car bit the dust in my junior year of college, when it literally caught fire on the freeway while I was driving a friend home. Thankfully, it was raining, which helped extinguish the flames, and neither one of us was hurt. In fact, after we safely exited the smoldering car, we stood on the shoulder of the road, staring at this ridiculous scene and laughing so hard, tears were rolling down both our faces. Apparently I missed the rather important warning label, "engine may burst into flames spontaneously for no reason whatsoever."

But I'm not bitter. This Yugo was a good little car ~ definitely worth the $800 I paid for it. Nope, I'm not kidding: the Yugo set me back Eight. Hundred. Dollars. I spent more than that for the gas I put into it over my almost 2-year period of ownership. And, as it happens, about four times as much to REPAIR the $800.00 money pit.

And the Yugo, along with it's replacement car, an old beater Mercury Lynx, managed to take me where I wanted to go ~ right up until the moment they each decidedly died. In my early years of college, my to my roommates dismay, I used to pack up my Fred Flintstone car and drive down to the U.S./ Mexico border, cross it, and just drive till I found a great beach. There, I'd check into a beach hotel (it was cheaper in Mexico than in the U.S.) and would spend the weekend surfing, reading, and just being. Yes, I was a young blonde American woman, alone in Mexico. That is the start of many a tragic epic. But I was both naive and careful, checking in with friends along the way and south of the border as well. I never once encountered a problem or unsavory situation. What I found instead was a few weekends of utter peace. I found my many collegiate Mexican forays incredibly nourishing, relaxing, and inspiring.

My friends called it dangerous.

And they were probably right.

But then again, considering that my cars had a tendency to blow up or disintegrate while I am driving them, the drive was almost certainly more dangerous than the destination.