Cars in Clothes

The Jeep caught my eye, not because of its sleek lines or elegant design, but because of the perky bow on its spare tire. 

Why do people dress their cars, give them antlers in December and bunny ears in spring? Is it because they spend so much time in their vehicles that the autos are an extension of themselves? An attempt to humanize the vehicle so we act civilly around it? Or is it pure whimsy that drives this practice? 

I'm going with that last explanation because it makes me smile.  To celebrate this Jeep's "attire," I snapped a shot while stopped at a light. 

There's a twist to this story, an amazing one too, given the number of cars I pass in this auto-dependent suburb. Four hours later, I spotted the same car, miles away from where I saw it the first time. 

Car clothes aren't just fun then, they're a powerful identifier. The moral of this story: Dress your car if you must, but be sure it behaves itself. 

An Adventure

Today, to avoid traffic, I plan to drive 20 or 30 miles out of my way, to etch a trail up and over rather than down and across. To take a country road rather than an interstate. It sounds crazy, which is why I'm calling it an adventure.  

I wonder if anyone has studied the miles people drive to avoid sitting on highways. If not, I propose the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area as a prime location for research. With two states plus the District of Columbia, one river and too few bridges (once you're out of the city), our neck of the woods is filled with idling cars and fuming motorists.  

Tell us, please, what we can do about it ... apart from having "adventures," of course.   

(Evening rush hour on I-66)                                                                                                                                               

One-Car Weekend

I remember when the driveway used to resemble a parking lot — five drivers and as many as four cars. Lately, there have just been two parked there, both gray sedans. And starting Friday, with one car in the shop, there's just been one. 

This might have seemed difficult in the past, a juggling act, but lately not so much. We  often run errands separately, but those can be planned around each other. Appointments seldom overlap. Neither of us parks our car all day at a Metro lot.

Life is simpler in this respect, and it makes me wonder ... could we do this permanently? I'd like to say yes, doing our bit for the carbon footprint and all, but I'll have to say no. 

In the suburbs, the car is autonomy, mastery and sometimes salvation. I'm thinking about the other day, when a walk I thought would be one hour was more than two, how glad I was to see my car parked beneath the trees, waiting to carry me home.

So as much as I'd like to be noble and economical, I'm hoping that the one-car weekend doesn't become a one-car week. 

Behind the Wheel

Women in Saudi Arabia have just been given the right to drive. It's a much-needed step toward equality in that nation, and I'd glad that it's finally happening.

Makes me think about a time in my life when driving meant liberation, which was decades ago, when I first got my license. Now driving is an irksome duty, a way to move from A to B. Now I feel more liberated walking or riding a bike than I do driving a car. It's hard to feel free when you're sitting in traffic or jostling with trucks on the Beltway.

Good to be reminded, though, of the pleasures of locomotion, of not being dependent on others for transport. I could be sitting on one of those buses in Bangladesh, the battered ones that seem to have been in countless crashes. Or I could be on the back of a zemidjan in Benin, hanging on for dear life as motorscooters careen around me.

But instead I have a car of my own and can propel myself wherever I need to go. It's nice to be reminded that it's nice to have wheels.

Farewell to the Van

"For many families, it was a compromise made long ago," I wrote back in 2003. "For us, it is a new one. The day we bought our minivan it rained for the first time in weeks. It's a sign, I said. Even the heavens are crying."

Now the heavens are crying again, this time because the van has given way to a shiny new Toyota Corolla.

Though initially resistant to van-dom, I grew to love the old car. After all, it was the spiritual heir to the '60s woody station wagons, and as such reminded me of my youth in the back seat. The van was more comfortable, of course; these are modern children. But the basic principle remained the same: buy large vehicle and pack it with kids.

The van was a workhorse. It lapped up the miles without complaint, and wore its 240k with grace. In 14 years it gave us very little trouble. Though short on style it was long on practicality.  Its motto: I will get you there.

Oh, the carpools that car has known, the cellos and clarinets and sweaty track kids it has transported. The boats it has towed, the trips to college it has made, the moving of furniture into first apartments, including, just last month, the transporting of newlyweds to their home in Arlington. (We threw rice!)

All of which is to say, what a lot of living that car has known! So I can't let it go without a backward glance.

Thank you, dear van! We'll miss you!

A Test Spin

Today I take my travel mug out for a test spin. A gift from Claire before she left for college, a thoughtful gift because she's been hearing me rant these summer mornings about drips and leaks and all around failure, this travel mug holds just enough tea to get me to Vienna, warm and wide awake, ready for the day.
Say what you will about the engines of cars, their marvelous innards. What I look for in a vehicle is the cup holder. It must be sturdy, it must be ergonomic, it must not take the whole coin tray with it when I pick it up. Life has its trials and it has its consolations. Leaving for work at six a.m. (already late today!) is a trial; drinking tea along the way is my pleasant consolation.

Farewell to the Saab

Today our beloved 1986 white Saab sedan takes one final trip when the vehicle-donation truck comes to pick it up. It's like losing a member of the family.We brought all three of our babies home from the hospital in this car. We took countless trips back to Kentucky and Indiana to see our families in it, chugging up and over the Appalachian Mountains more times than I can count. The Saab has been to Montana and Arizona and New Mexico, to Oklahoma and Texas and Tennessee. It moved us from Arkansas to Massachusetts and then, a couple years and one baby later, from Massachusetts to Virginia. We carried tools in it, bikes in it, even a cello and a string bass in it. I still remember which side the gas tank is on by imagining Suzanne as a baby in a car seat, diagonally across from me in the driver's seat.

Tom bought the Saab before we were married, and we first drove it on the brow of a flat-topped mountain in Arkansas. From this idyllic childhood, the Saab moved on to a serviceable middle age. In the last five years it managed to keep going through a few minor ailments and then what we all feared would be its final illness, an injury that involved rust, an axle and the entire front end. For months the car languished in our driveway. But Tom put it back together again.

We have no idea how many miles the Saab has logged; the odometer broke years ago. The headliner is long gone and the finish is pockmarked. But through it all, the Saab has maintained its dignity, its good nature and its fine bones. It is a noble, willing car; it has heart.

I once wrote an essay about the day we finally broke down and bought a mini-van. It was raining when we went to pick it, I said. Even the heavens were crying. Well, it's raining today. Raining buckets. We're losing the Saab. Even the heavens are crying.