Not one to shy away from roadside distractions, especially those of the four wheel variety, this past weekend I pulled over for a five-speed transgression. The fact that it was found parked on the side of the road seemed eerily familiar.
Even from a 100 yards away, I easily recognized its sleek lines. Still it had to be a mirage or a more pretentious French optical illusion. Apparition or not, I pulled over so quickly that my wife thought a tire had blown or I had forgotten something important back at our friends' cottage on Platte Lake like the beer or our five year old. After screeching to a halt, I pointed out the window and uttered one word: Fuego.
Now every family has dirty little secrets or skeletons best left in the closet, the Leivas are still haunted by a big mistake in the form of a little sports car. While the title was in my parents' names, the Fuego car keys belonged to my older sister. Although I had the chance to pilot the "silver bullet” on odd weekends, summer break and to prom with my future wife in the passenger seat.
For my sister, a sophomore at Michigan State University, the silver and black turbo Renault was the epitome of an impractical college ride. It couldn't haul much in the way of milk crates, futons or a dorm room loft; at best you could pack a few Talking Heads tapes and a case of ramen noodles. However, it did haul back and forth to East Lansing in record time. It was fun on four wheels — when it felt like running.
Now my French is rustier than an old tailpipe, but I believe "fuego” translates into the word fire. As in "if this piece of junk leaves me stranded on the side of the road one more time I'm going to set it on fire.” From electrical gremlins to drivetrain components, you couldn't drive past an auto repair shop without the check engine light turning on. The parts and labor costs were a rude awakening to French customs, as in high-priced tariffs. In no time at all the stack of repair bills rivaled the height of a Victor Hugo novel. "Les Miserables” would have been an appropriate vanity license plate.
As the 1980s drew to a close, the joy ride was over for the likes of parachute pants and A Flock of Seagulls. It was also the end of the road for the Fuego. We sold this lemon but not before it squeezed the life out of a few checking accounts.
So I was surprised that 19 years later, standing before a similar turbocharged Fuego, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia instead of nausea. Written on the windshield was the unlikely pairing of 1983, "classic” and 46,000 miles. I'm guessing that the previous owner had a short commute between repair shops. I wanted photographic proof of this roadside discovery, so my wife snapped a picture of my best used car salesman gesture next to the Fuego.
I wonder when my sister rips open up the mail this week if a certain ghostly 4x6 glossy image will stop her in her tracks. If she happens to be standing out in the driveway the next-door neighbors will have to pardon her French.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com