“First Car”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

Erstwhile local journalist and active writer Josh Echt recently submitted a manuscript to the Geauga Independent that talked about his first car, a 1997 Ford Contour. We have had a long-running conversation about motor vehicles that has literally spanned several years. His fond recollection of this Euro-styled ‘horseless carriage’ prompted me to ponder my own primal hauler. Thus, what you read here became a reality-in-print.

My own first car was a white, 1973 Volkswagen ‘Standard’ Beetle.

The story of Herr Porsche’s ‘wunderkind’ remains a familiar part of automotive lore. The VW Type 1 provided a useful foundation for an entire generation of funky, air-cooled chariots. They meshed with ‘hippie’ culture of the 1960’s and eventually opened the way for imported vehicles from Japan and elsewhere as the ‘oil embargo’ had us all struggling to cope with fuel shortages. The Bug reigned as a pop icon until its mechanical lack of sophistication forced the company to look elsewhere for fresher designs.

After passing my driver’s test in a 1969 Ford LTD ‘Country Squire’ wagon, the V-Dub was a breeze to pilot. It sipped fuel compared to the large sedans that were common in my family. And although it earned me a fair amount of teasing for owning a small, foreign car, it served my needs. (In those days, the full-sized American style of automobile still dominated our roadways.)

The Beetle boasted all the quirks associated with air-cooled products sent over from Deutschland. It had a ‘gravity flow’ heating system that was all but useless. I grew accustomed to driving with an ice scraper in one hand, to keep the windshield interior clear, during winter months. In the summer, heat from the rear-engine was persistent and unwelcome. Once, when my New York friend Paul Race, Jr. placed a stack of vinyl records on the rear floor, they were actually melted by the blast. (One of the vent doors was rusty and stuck open.)

The Bug had competent winter traction, with its weight bias over the drive wheels. But when tire spin arrived, the tail-heavy Bug could behave like a bumper car at the fair. It handled well, with more ‘road feel’ than the ponderous power-steering of our large Fords. Additionally, it proved to be easy to park at concerts or urban venues where space was limited. But interior comforts were few.

One of my bosses confessed that he reckoned I must have been smoking ‘weed’ on my breaks since I drove such a rolling symbol of counterculture ethos. His comment made me laugh out loud. Far from engaging in such nefarious activities, I instead preferred the taste of blue-collar beer, after work. He looked on in disbelief as I explained. I tried hard to set him straight. But my long hair and ragged jeans did not help. At any rate, I kept my job. And my car.

On long trips, the Beetle was unmasked as an ‘economy’ car, not really suited for any sort of grand touring across wide-open spaces. It was cramped, loud and harsh on long rides. Still, the respectable fuel economy meant I could visit friends in central New York for only a few dollars worth of gasoline. On one of these lonely voyages, I decided to test the vehicle for its speed capability. Assured that no one else shared the road during late hours after dark, and feeling safe from the NY State Police with their big Dodge cruisers, I literally floored the accelerator in 4^th gear. The Bug shuddered and howled its way to a top speed of 88 miles per hour. Wind noise actually competed with the flat-four for supremacy. Not a truly impressive achievement, yet certainly all the 1.6 liter motor could produce. I couldn’t help thinking of the ‘Red Baron’ pushing his airplane to its limits.

“Curse you, Snoopy!”

I arrived early that night, in Corning. Friends were impressed with my white V-Dub. It looked out of place behind their more modern, green Pinto station wagon. My friend Paul suggested that I pose for a photograph being chewed on by the front hood of the Beetle. As if I were in the mouth of my little beast. After coffee the next morning, I complied. The photograph became a legendary part of his personal collection.

Eventually, the VW burned oil and began to rust after years of service. Typical of the breed, its running boards surrendered to the ‘metal termites’ leaving only black rubber matting as evidence of their existence. When I grew tired of the factory AM radio, I installed a Sparkomatic stereo system from Fisher’s Big Wheel. (Still a struggle to hear over road noise and the clatter of the air-cooled motor.) When the gas pedal broke, I used a discarded, plastic roller wheel in its place. It fit the accelerator pin and linkage, perfectly.

Eventually, my family advised that the Volkswagen needed to go away in favor of something more up-to-date. At Hal Artz Pontiac on Water Street in Chardon, we found a low-mileage 1981 Chevrolet Chevette. It was unappetizing in every respect. Beige, with four doors. A matching interior with contrasting brown stripes. A four-on-the-floor transmission and a more sophisticated 1.6 liter motor. An appliance, like a refrigerator, with no ‘soul.’

It felt like a Cadillac compared to my old VW. But the car had no style. No vibe of hippie wanderlust. No notion of Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple or MC5 jamming out on stage.

I last saw my Beetle sitting at the Artz car lot. It looked dejected and forlorn. Spent. Used up and abandoned. Amid large sedans and pickup trucks, it seemed unlikely that anyone would be interested in purchasing the car. Not in Geauga County, anyway. Soon enough, I would realize that the utility of a 4x4 hauler was something I desired. Especially living in the snow capitol of northeastern Ohio. But at that moment, I bowed my head and said a silent goodbye.

Years later, I would occasionally dream that I had rediscovered the old Beetle and was taking it for a drive. Reconnecting with the careless abandon of my lost youth. Once again at the wheel with that flat dashboard and windshield before me, glistening in the sun. The clattering motor tick-tick-ticking away like a worn piece of farm equipment.

I would never want to own the Volkswagen again. Yet it is a memory I am glad to hold, forever.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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Published weekly in the Geauga Independent