10 Years of Love Affairs

I've had many mishaps with cars over the 10 years I've been licensed to drive. My first car was Bertha, a 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, also known as the Beast, the Tuna Boat, and the Gutless Cutlass. My dad bought her for me when I was 17. She didn't look like much, but then again, I didn't need much. She was a fixer-upper: the headliner was sagging, she needed a new paint job, and was just going to need a lot of love.

Bertha and I...we went through a lot together. She was a comfort-mobile. My boyfriend insisted on installing an incredible stereo system, complete with 2 10-inch subwoofers. People would mock her until they got in and settled into her couch-like seats; Bertha never disappointed. Throughout our four years together, I learned how to change my sparkplugs, my oil, my brakes, and my motor mounts. The motor mounts cracked at the same time the transmission turfed due to being in two accidents in two weeks (I was rear-ended on the freeway both times if you can believe it AND at the exact same place on the freeway, just going in opposite directions). Bertha was technically totalled both times but she was still driveable and legal, so we merely changed the title to salvage and I continued to drive her around for another two years.

This picture is from the motor mount expedition. My mom thought I looked cute in Dad's old coveralls, covered in grease, so she snapped a photo. I don't know if you can see the look of disgust on my face, but this was taken just after we realized we had let the engine slip and weren't sure if we would be able to get it back to where it needed to be in order to put the new motor mounts in. No cherry picker + one engineer + his daughter + one jack + one broomstick = makeshift cherry picker and a very dangerous situation for the girl sitting on the other end of it as the stabilizing force. Thankfully I avoided impalement and we got the engine back where it belonged. Just another Saturday spent in the driveway of 3502 Wisteria Drive.

We thought that with the mending of the motor mounts and transmission, Bertha was fit for action. Unfortunately there was damage deeper than we realized and a large oil leak finally did her in. Dad tried to revive her one more time, but when he dropped a very important nut into the depths of the engine, he looked at me and said, "Julie, this car has had enough. It's time to let it die." Her, Dad. Her name is Bertha. I almost cried when the tow truck took her away.

I drove the OG Beast, my dad's 1976 Chevy pickup, for three weeks. No suspension, no radio, and 8 miles to the gallon. I was dying. I was also a month away from graduation. I made my boyfriend take me car shopping. I walked onto the lot, found the cheapest new car I could find - no more used cars for me; I wanted my Saturdays back - took it for a drive, and said, "I'll take it." Thus Betsy entered my life. Nevermind the fact that I didn't really know how to drive a stick-shift; I learned very quickly through many heart-pounding moments.

Betsy and I were together for five years (what can I say, I'm a long-term relationship kind of girl). I paid her off in a year and loved having a brand new reliable car. She was worth every penny--never gave me a lick of trouble. Then one day I was on the freeway, minding my own business, sitting in stop-and-go traffic on my way back from a mud run in Norfolk that wasn't really a mud run. (Grayden and/or Reed, do you still have the link to that picture of us running through the one mud pit? I still think we totally should have bought it, even though I was half-naked...or maybe especially because I was.) This guy driving a Tahoe decided he would come play, but Betsy is littler than most and the Tahoe smooshed her.

And just like that she was gone. I was so angry about having been stripped of my wonderful, reliable, paid for car that I couldn't replace her; every time I went car shopping I ended up being rude to the salesmen. Me. Rude. Unheard of. Seriously. So I finally decided to pay off my student loans with Betsy's blood money and held off on finding her replacement until I had cooled off.

It took me three months to recover. Then I met Percy. I was still miffed I had to purchase a new car, but I was going crazy. I needed to run errands alone. I needed to go to the temple alone. I needed to be alone in a car that was my own. Percy was my miracle. $900 later, he was mine. He's not much (a 1988 Honda Civic with 207k miles, no heat, no AC, no power steering, doors that don't lock, a trunk that leaks, etc. etc.) but I figured he would be a good filler until I decided what I was doing with my life. Little did I know how deeply I would fall in love with him. He's a zippy little thing with lots of character.

Then last night...he died. Driving to institute, my battery light flickered on and off. The service lights in my car frequently make appearances so I didn't think much of it. Then my radio started freaking out. I felt a couple of weeks ago that my luck with Percy was beginning to run out and I thought, oh boy, this is it. How short my memory runs. By the time institute was over I had forgotten about the flickering light and the poltergeist in my radio. I ended up offering Bekah a ride home so we could finish our conversation. We were deep in it when I realized my lights were becoming more and more dim until finally we were driving down the freeway in almost complete darkness. I didn't really know what to do: push forward until home or pull over immediately? It turned out I didn't have to decide; as we took the ramp from 495 to 395 it felt like Percy was downshifting, but I wasn't doing anything. Then he died on the uphill of the offramp. I kept praying that our momentum would carry us to the shoulder. We barely made it.

I've had so many car mishaps that I just had to laugh (there are countless Bertha breakdown stories...). I was still laughing when I realized a car had pulled up behind us. In the darkness I had no idea who it was. I tried to ignore them while I pulled my thoughts together; I had to formulate a game plan. Bekah's voice pulled me back into the moment: "They're getting out of the car. Lock the doors." Before we could remember that Percy's doors don't lock, we realized who had stopped: Janine and Emily. (Thank you, ladies!) They had recognized Percy and noticed that his lights were off as he slowed to a dangerously slow-poke pace. By the time they reached our car my decision was made: abandon ship. Hazards on, we left Percy. Janine called her dad, I called mine, and between the two we had a diagnosis and a plan.

When I got home, I called a towing company to come rescue Percy. They claimed they would be to the site in 25 minutes. It was 10:15. It was late (for me at least). I knew I would feel guilty for disturbing whomever I called. But then I remembered the guilt-free hotline: the home teachers. Shout out to Dan Ricks. Kyle handled the bat, Dan handled the car. He even brought popcorn.

We shared two precious hours in the comfort of his Audi, seats kicked back, moon roof open, bearing our souls, waiting for the tow truck to find us. Dan now knows what a mess I am, and I now know how kind and sensitive he is. Around 12:45 or so, the tow truck finally found us. We had already witnessed him zoom by us twice, but how do you flag down a tow truck from the comfort of heated leatherseats? You don't. When he finally found us, he pulled over and backed up to my car; I won't lie: even in Percy's dilapidated state, I get nervous about additional cuts and bruises. We had already judged our towing guy as incompetent since it took him two hours to find us and now his proximity to my car was solidifying that judgment. Then my car shook.

"He hit your car!" Dan exclaimed. "Did he just hit your car?!"
"He did! What the--" Then the front end of my car began to lift. In unison we both crooned, "ooooooh, cool." Seriously smooth. One quick backup and my car was ready to be towed, just like that. My impression turned to disgust when I realized what a racket these guys have. We drove all of 8 miles and the dude charged me $150. The good news is my insurance covers the towing cost. The hilarious news is my 6 month premium for that car is $175. Who's the sucker now? Oh wait, that would be me. The shop is charging me $500 to fix Percy. Is he worth it? Yes. This time. But this is his last chance.

Thanks again, Dan. Cookies will be forthcoming.