THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 12, 1994 TAG: 9406090191
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 46 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Ron Speer
DATELINE: 940612 LENGTH: Medium
For years my limit on cars was a thousand bucks, but my wife started balking at letting me park my car in our driveway next to her shiny automobile. So I raised the limit to two thousand, which lets me tool around in style while draining every mile out of Detroit's finest. I've even got a slogan:
{REST} ``Old when I get 'em, junk when I quit 'em.''
My only qualifier is that they have to be made in America. And since they've been driven for years, I've had numerous opportunities to witness an automotive milestone: That moment when the odometer slowly ticks past 99999.9 until all zeroes pop up.
Unfortunately, I wasn't paying attention and couldn't celebrate the magic moment when it happened on my 1965 Rambler station wagon. I missed it again on my 1969 Ford. Ditto on Old Blue, my favorite, a 1969 Buick that carried me faithfully for years, until her heart gave out at 143,342 miles. Big Red, a dependable '73 Chevrolet station wagon, sped past the mark without me noticing, too. And so did my big, burly green Mercury Marquis, a 1979 product that was probably the best car I've ever had. I'd give anything to find a low-mileage sister of that car, which was loaded with luxury that came - to me - at no extra cost.
When age overtook the Mercury three years ago, I found a 1983 Buick for my two thousand that had about 60,000 miles on it, and this time I was determined that when she neared the 100,000-mile mark I'd be watching.
I was, too.
Driving back from Hampton Roads recently, I noticed the first five numbers were nines.
And at 7:32 a.m. May 31, 1994, all six nines came up, and 99999.9 then slowly turned into 00000.0.
We were atop the high-rise bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway at Coinjock when it happened.
It was a symbolic place, because both me and my car were on a high.
The Buick, I swear, seemed to be running easier, quieter, snappier with no miles on the meter.
I felt rejuvenated a bit myself, proud as a peacock that my made-in-America choice of wheels had made it past the century mark and is still going strong.
And proud, too, that as popular as it is to knock American-made stuff these days, we turn out some mighty dependable products.
In the good old days of my father's time, almost never did a car make it through all the numbers on the odometer and start anew.
When I was growing up, cars weren't as dependable, they weren't as safe, flat tires were a regular occurrence and seats and cushions usually needed replacing after a few years. The paint faded, the bodies rusted.
My 11-year-old Buick's interior shows little signs of wear when I clean it, and although my wife might disagree I think she still looks pretty decent.
There are other advantages to driving an old car. Property taxes on my Buick run a tenth of those on my wife's vehicle. I don't pay for insurance to cover damages to the Buick. And I don't worry about getting that first dent.
There are drawbacks, of course, such as an air-conditioning fan that's on the blink right now. And I'll admit that on fancy nights out, we go in my wife's car.
But a little shame or discomfort can't erase memories of that special moment on the high-rise bridge when the odometer came up all zeroes.
And when I glance now at the odometer and see less than a thousand miles, I feel like I'm on new wheels, despite that strange little clicking sound that just started coming from the engine.
by CNB