New Car Fever
After driving two hand-me-downs and one used car (which I purchased for a whopping $600), I decided it was time for a brand-spanking-new-off-the-showroom-floor car. So it happened that in 1976 I bought a new Fiat 128. That boxy little car was a delight to drive when it was running well, which was some of the time. We traded it in six years later, when it was in need of its third valve job. One good thing about that car: it cured me of any desire to own a European sports car.
My second new car was a 1980 Chevy Citation. We were expecting our first child and we figured that the two-door 1972 Mercury Capri would be too inconvenient for dealing with a car seat. We had good luck with the Citation, so much good luck that, when it was time to get rid of the Fiat, we decided on another Chevy Citation. The count stands at three new cars.
In the spring of 1987 we were driving back to the mountains of Virginia after a couple of weeks at North Myrtle Beach. We lived in the mountains: who needs air conditioning in a car in the mountains? I guess we didn’t think that one through because two weeks at the beach, even in the spring, really required A/C. The two girls were in car seats in the back seat of the 1980 Citation, my wife was quite pregnant with our third child in the front seat, and every square inch of the Citation was packed with the detritus associated with two kiddies. All of them were asleep, leaving me with my own thoughts: a dangerous proposition. I was ruminating on the two weeks without air conditioning, the fact that the car that once seemed so spacious would simply not do for two children, much less three, and that I had to do something about it. We were about 65 miles from our home, passing through the southern part of Roanoke, Virginia, when I saw a sign for a GM dealership. I hit the turn signal, which awakened my spouse. “What are you doing?” she asked. “I’m buying a new car.” I pulled into the dealership, and a pleasant fellow came over to the car and said, “How can I help you today?” I replied, “I want the biggest G** d***ed car you have.” Without missing a beat he said “That would be the station wagon.”
And so it came to pass that I bought a brand new 1987 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser station wagon. It was a glorious vehicle: eight gas-guzzling cylinders, and a Holley four-barrel carburetor. Nine miles per gallon in town. I never complained about the mileage. When I was T-boned in 1995 by a 1989 Ford Mustang doing 45 miles per hour, my only damage was a subdural hematoma in my left leg. The wagon was totaled, of course, but all that steel in the door saved me.
That was the last brand-spanking-new-off-the-showroom-floor car that I owned, until late last year.
My ex-wife convinced me that a brand new car was a bad deal. They depreciate significantly when you drive them off the dealer’s lot. Why not let someone else take the depreciation hit? That made perfectly good sense, and was my philosophy for decades.
Given my experience with the 1995 accident, I tended to buy vehicles with safety in mind. Eventually I ended up with a used 1999 Ford Ranger, which began my love affair with pick-up trucks. I traded that one in for a used 2013 Ford F-150. I owned that truck for nine years. It had maybe 40,000 miles on it when I bought it. It died last year, courtesy of a tulip poplar tree that could not withstand the winds associated with Hurricane Helene. It had 275,000 miles on it, and was just getting broken in.
Hurricane Helene hit us at the end of September, and thanks to a son-in-law, I was able to borrow a Prius for awhile. I am not complaining: a free loaner is a wonderful thing. But that is not a car for a tall person. Kathy ended up buying another car first (she lost her car to the same tulip poplar tree), so I inherited her rented Jeep. Another fun car to drive, but not enough steel to suit me. By late November or early December I began to get serious about car shopping. It was pretty easy for me: I wanted another truck, and if possible, I wanted another F-150.
We were down to the wire at Ford of Spartanburg. The choice was simple: a used F-150 that looked a good bit like the truck that died on September 27, or a brand new sporty version of the F-150. I was ready to buy the used one, when Kathy suggested that a new car warranty would be nice. And with that, nearly four decades of buying used cars came to an end.
I am still getting used to the new truck. It has too much computer to suit me. The first time I tried to change lanes quickly, without a turn signal, the truck fought me. It took awhile to figure out how to disable that alleged safety feature. Ditto for the front collision assist. Ditto for the rear collision assist. I keep finding features I don’t want. Whatever happened to the skill requirement for driving a motor vehicle? Oh, well, just count me as one old curmudgeon who isn’t happy with all the change in the world.
But also count me as one old curmudgeon who enjoys his new F-150.