THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, September 12, 1994 TAG: 9409120044
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: Medium: 63 lines
A survey finds drivers are holding onto cars 10 years old that in other times they would have replaced. I have two oldsters, one 10, the other 21.
Imagine me, ever out of step, becoming part of a trend.
As is well known, cars that live together affect one another's psyche, which is why the 21-year-old two-door coupe gave out recently after the 10-year-old convertible fell ill.
One year of an auto's life equals four of a human being's. The coupe is 84 and the convertible is 40.
The convertible is silver gray, with a scratch here and there; but it has strong facial bones. Stand 300 feet away and squint and the wrinkles vanish. Its beauty persists, as with some women who are ageless.
Helen of Troy comes to mind.
The convertible's annual inspection uncovered a leak in the steering rack, a part new to me.
``So patch it with chewing gum,'' I said. It would take more than that, some $600 worth, the dealer replied. ``Trade it in,'' he advised.
But I let it rest awhile. No point in assuming payments for a new car amounting to three times as much as the $4,000 house my father began buying in 1925.
I revved up the beat-up old coupe that looks like a beached white whale. We call it Moby Dick.
Dale Bowen once advised: ``When you park it on the street be sure to put a sign on it: THIS IS NOT AN ABANDONED VEHICLE!''
It has a motor the size of a tank's. Look under the cavernous hood and the parts are as simple as a set of Tinker Toys. You could stow a moose in the trunk and have room for a free-standing Philco radio.
At the sight of the straight three-foot stick shift, valet jockeys quake. ``You park it,'' they plead.
Moby's cloth ceiling, sagging somewhat, gives passengers the appearance of royalty riding around in a howdah on an elephant's back.
A decade ago the dealer, selling the convertible, offered $50 for Moby on a trade-in. I refused.
So, while the convertible was sidelined, I was driving around in Moby when it collapsed out of sympathy with its stablemate.
Two down!
A diagnostician, who came with a tow truck, identified Moby's ailment as a leak in the fuel line. That shook me. The last fuel-line leak I could recall was in a spacecraft. To mend it cost $6 million.
There was no way I could muster that kind of cash in under two weeks.
We towed Moby to a repair shop on the verge of downtown Norfolk.
And I fell back to riding the bus, a chastening experience. At last, the shop's owner phoned: ``Moby's ready.''
While he figured the bill, his pipe clenched in his teeth, I steadied myself for a figure that would jump-start the national economy.
He looked up, impassive. ``How much is it?'' I asked.
``It's $7.50,'' he said.
I staggered and asked: ``What did you use, chewing gum?''
And went to fetch the convertible. by CNB