July 12, 2000
First car real four cylinder albatross
By Garret Leiva
Herald editor
They say you never forget your first kiss or your first car.
I have no idea who planted their lips on mine while swinging from the playground monkey bars - although I'm sure I nearly died from cooties. The keys to my 1978 Chevette, however, are still hanging on a dusty Chuck Tanner shoe keychain.
It has been a decade since I last sat in the Carmine plaid driver's seat, and 9 years since the "Vette" was last seen sputtering down the road. Chances are it is a license plate or a paper weight by now. Then again, like disco, this is one car that would not die.
It was 1978 when the burgundy 4-door and I first met. My sister and I had just stepped off bus 75-3 to find a bright, shiny new car in the driveway. My jaw dropped, along with my book bag, as I stood squinting at the chrome bumpers. We giggled with each shift of the four speed as mom took us for a ride around Little Long Lake. Sadly, we had no idea of the immortal powers behind this four cylinder albatross.
With its docile hubcaps and one front speaker am/fm radio, the "Vette" exuded demureness. In reality, however, it was eternal damnation on wheels. It was the car that would not die.
We first became aware of these supernatural powers that first winter when mom lost control of the car on black ice. The vehicle did a slow motion rollover and came to rest upside down in the ditch. This was only the beginning of its foray into roadside ditches. Nor was this the last trip to the body shop.
Still on the road five years later, the car was now subjected to my sister and her learner's permit. 'Grind-it-to-find-it' gear shifts, stalls, trips with the parking brake on - any abuse only made the "Vette" stronger. Occasionally it would take its wrath out on other vehicles. One rainy night, while backing out of a movie theater parking lot, the subcompact took a station wagon door right off its hinges.
In 1987, with nearly a decade of driving on its odometer, the 'Vette" keys were unceremoniously passed on to the last Leiva driver. Thus began the epic struggle between teen and machine.
Like any self-respecting, self-indulgent 17-year-old, I hated the car. It was slow, a 4-door hatchback no less, and it lacked eardrum pounding speakers. Within a month, the decibel level inside the "Vette" doubled with am/fm cassette and rear 6x9s. The rear seat was folded down for a quasi coupe. I even hung a plastic skull from the rearview mirror like the one in "Bob Falfa's" '55 Chevy in "American Graffiti."
The car was so lame it was cool.
Then things got ugly; quarter panel wise. I ended up in the ditch on New Year's Eve and Uncle Dick had to pull the car out with his tractor. That summer I was hit twice in one night in the local skate/dance place parking lot. The "Vette" was starting to show its age with every new dent and crease.
It remained, however, the undisputed after school "Chevette-only drag races at 35 mph across the parking lot" champion. Never mind that the only other competitor was my friend's 1984 Chevette with a slushbox automatic and a broken rear shock.
By the summer before my freshman year of college, the "Vette" was on its last set of tires. Oxidation was creeping across the hood, shifting did not require the use of a clutch and the muffler had more pinholes than metal. Even underbody rustproofing proved no match for mortality. Toward the end, you could pull the key out of the ignition while driving down the road. In 1991, the Chevette pulled out of our driveway for the last time after my parents sold it for $300.
A few weeks ago, while visiting my hometown, I swear I saw a 68 horsepower ghost from the past. I only caught a glimpse of battered quarter panel and docile hubcaps, but it sure looked like eternal damnation on wheels. After all, like kissing-induced cooties, you never forget your first ride.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com.