Why don’t we love our cars anymore?
For several years now automakers have marketed cars as extensions of our digital lives, an accessory to our cell phones, and I think that accurately reflects a shift in cultural values, from the automobile to the cellphone as the centre of ego and status. Back when I bought my first car, most owners still took pride in owning, driving and maintaining a car. Nowadays, if the car gets us from A to B, connects to AirPlay or Android Auto, or even runs on electricity, then we’re happy. It’s just another monthly expense, a subscription, along with T-Mobile, WiFi, Netflix and HelloFresh.
My first car, the first car I ever owned, was an ungainly rust-red and rusted 1967 Volkswagen Beetle. In response to my classifieds ad for a ‘free or nearly free’ car, a guy phoned to say, for $75 cash, I was welcome to his wife’s car, said Beetle, complete with broken clutch, abandoned in a parking lot out at the University of British Columbia.
After my Dad drove me out to the car, jump-started it and babied it to the back-alley of my basement rental in East Vancouver, a friend helped me jack up the car and replace the clutch.
At the time I bought it in 1980, the Bug was already 13 years old. It really was a death trap, but my youthful brain filtered out safety at the prospect of personal freedom. I assume it was the bare-bones base model, since it had no radio, no gas gauge (just a foot-operated lever on the floor to switch to a reserve tank), and the barest minimum of plastic trim and upholstery. I think it had tires, but I’m not sure if they had any more than a modicum of tread. I’m pretty sure it had seat belts. And wipers. You know, frills.
The 1200cc engine wheezed and whined on moderate slopes, never mind climbing up Oak Street from 4th Avenue to Broadway! The rusted-out heat tubes provided so little airflow, in the soggy Vancouver winter I had to squeegee the inside of the windscreen every few minutes to see where I was going. I had a spectacular view of the roadway passing below through the rusted out floor panel between my knees.
But I loved that car, I babied it, fixed it up for the year or so that it lasted. I took great pride in fixing the broken clutch, then going out to the wreckers on Mitchell Island to pry a gas tank and gauge from a wrecked Bug (so I wouldn’t have to panic when the next time it ran out of gas crossing the Knight Street Bridge), patching the floor with fibreglass then laying black carpeting on the whole floor, installing an after-market exhaust to give it a nice, throaty growl when I geared down to a stop — by the time the clutch died again, cresting the hill on 10th at Fraser Street, I felt I was practically driving a Porsche!
I had many adventures driving that little red Beetle around the Vancouver area. Like the time I tried to get it up to 75 mph on the highway, only to have the front hood fly up, leaving me just the barest slit between the bottom edge of the hood and the body to see the road ahead, as I coasted off to the shoulder.
Then the time the wipers froze and jammed on the way home from work at Radio Shack in Coquitlam Centre, on one of the infrequent snowy BC nights. Luckily, I had that squeegee at hand, and I was not far from my Dad’s condo in Port Moody, so, reaching out the side window to swipe the outside of the windscreen, I made my way to my Dad’s place and borrow a wrench to tighten up the arms.
I mastered the art of shifting the 4-speed manual transmission, feeling the sweet joy of coasting to a perfect stop at the crest of the hill where East 6th Avenue meets Clark Drive, disengaging the clutch and applying the foot brake as it stopped just the perfect distance from the car ahead. Although I later owned other Volkswagens, a red and white Karmann Ghia and and a black Microbus (also both death traps!), I always believed I’d own another Beetle some day.
But now I’m much older, much saner and much more practical, so the last car I bought was an economical, one-year-old, white 2015 Chevrolet Sonic LT — but light-years ahead of the Beetle.
The Sonic is pleasant and easy to drive. It came stock with a gas gauge, for one thing. And BlueTooth. And On Star, which nags me to subscribe every couple of months. And power windows. And power steering, and an automatic transmission. And automatic lights! I never have to think about turning the lights on or off, although myopically it insists that most of the gray winter days in Vancouver are nighttime and refuses to switch to daytime running lights. Tire sensors — it knows when the tires need filling, although I resent that gas stations now charge a buck for 3 minutes of air. Remote start! Heated seats! Who needs heated seats in Vancouver?
The Sonic probably has all sorts of safety features that I can’t see or appreciate. And this is nearly the base trim for an ‘economy’ car. The Sonic a great vehicle, considering that even at $20K new (that’s $2,411.44 in 1967 dollars) and a possible 15+ years life, it provides far more comfort, functionality and safety than the engineers at Volkswagen could even dream about in 1967 for that Beetle, nearly an equivalent for its time.
According to this article, the base price in Canada for a Volkswagen Beetle in 1967 was $1800 — so even adjusted for inflation, the Sonic is much more car for the dollar than the Beetle. With it’s black and white paint scheme, round lamps and blocky styling, it even has its own Star Wars Storm Trooper-ish vibe.
And yet, the Sonic sits neglected in the carport, its backside grimed with dirt from months of winter driving, and enough grit and gravel on the floor mats to start a garden. Gas receipts and medical masks litter the pockets in the dusty dashboard and doors. Since COVID let me indulge in near-permanent Work From Home mode, the Sonic doesn’t even get out on the road more than 2 or 3 times a week. Which is great, given the upwardly-mobile direction gas prices have gone the past few months.
And I haven’t even brought in the wider concerns around climate, fossil fuels, and urban development — all of the factors pushing love of automobile culture farther and farther from our hearts.
Still, I probably invest more attention, care and love into my Google Pixel 6 cellphone than I ever have for the Sonic. Thinking about how grumpy I get now when the Sonic refuses to connect to my phone, I realize I take for granted the luxury of listening to podcasts while driving, when that first car didn’t even have a radio. I care more for my phone now than my car. As much as I did for my first car. And the thought of that rusty red unlovely Beetle still tugs at my heart, sometimes.
