866PAS

Valentine's Day always makes me think of my first car. 

I loved it with all of my heart, in some crazy, 1950's Happy Days All-American way. And I'm not a car person, thus my love for my '91 Volkswagen Golf was all the more peculiar and special. But love it was, in a heart-pounding, can-think-of-little-else kind of way. I had been looking for a car on and off, yet the purchase still had the thrill of an impetuous buy, secured admidst a flurry of paperwork, forms, banking information and the requisite cheque for the downpayment (thanks, mom). It was a "demonstrator" (always a prudent purchase, I was advised), it was white (not cool), automatic (not cool), it had four doors (really not cool), and a pull-out stereo (it was 1992 afterall). But it was MINE. Well, almost. The date: February 14, 1992. I was told to return the following Saturday to pick it up. 

For 7 days, I thought of little else. I even recorded a special tape featuring all my favs to listen to on the car's maiden voyage back to the city. The joyful day of pick-up arrived, and I hopped out of bed, packed my bag and raced to catch the 9:10 train. It wasn't until I was seated with coffee in hand and the train's engines were engaged, propelling us slowly and noisily out of the station, did I remember that it was February 22. Which, loyal reader, is my birthday.  And something I am not sure I had EVER forgotten before (or since for that matter). Now, that's love.

My faithful '91 Golf stood by me for 12 years. It moved me three times. It—or perhaps, more correctly I—survived a blown-out back tire at 120kms, muffler replacements, alternator problems. For awhile, we had to manually operate the indicator light. We endured the lousy A/C (did it actually have A/C I now ask myself?), and by the end, an over-taxed exhaust system that announced our arrival at least half a block before we appeared (ticktickticktickticktick). My god-daughter reminded me recently that when I used to take her to swimming lessons, I had to pull a lever (or something) under the dashboard to actually start the ignition. I had completely forgotten that—as I have forgotten countless other mis-adventures.

I don't know what it was about that car that captured my heart so completely. I guess perhaps it was mine and mine alone, and it bought me a kind of freedom and independence I had perhaps never experienced before. 

Well of course it's been years since the Golf gave up the ghost and re-invented itself as scrap metal. But I remain wistful about my first car-love. 

Happy Valentine's Day 866PAS.

 

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