What It Was

Okay. Maybe I've been to harsh. Right here on this blog I have, perhaps, unnecessarily flogged the Chevrolet Vega. It might be that I have handed out all this abuse for all these years out of love. It could be that I am only hiding my true feelings.

If this is your first time to the neighborhood, you should know that my first car*.It was the car I purchased for less than one thousand dollars. The one that wasn't a Plymouth Arrow, nor was it a Subaru Brat or even a Chevy van. The Vega found me as much as I found it. Not unlike the dog we adopted much later in life, there was a moment of recognition. Resignation. This was meant to be. 

Part of me tried to put a spin on the overall look of the vehicle, which Chevrolet no doubt hoped to market as Camaro's little brother. It wasn't. Not that this kept me from driving the thing as if I had a real sports car. The standard transmission gave me ample opportunity to peel out, and eventually the wear and tear I put on the clutch taught me how to slip it, revving to high enough rpms to simply slide it into the next gear. 

Did I mention that it was a hatchback? This allowed me to shuttle the sousaphone I was borrowing to and from school. And the back seat was certainly ample for your standard high school canoodling. I know this not because I did a lot of it myself. When I was a sophomore, I was enlisted to drive my junior pal and his girlfriend to dark and deserted cul de sacs where there could engage in some pretty shameless slap and tickle. I say this because I was sitting in the driver's seat, listening to the radio, available for the periodic request like, "Can you hold onto my watch?"

As hard as I drove that copper colored Camaro wannabe, I had to learn how to change spark plugs with some regularity, and because of the slowly disintegrating aluminum block I was buying 10W-40 by the case. I also put as much time, energy and money into the sound system as I did on the mechanics. This had the effect of making it increasingly easy to ignore the sounds that the engine made. And once I was in a position to drive my own date to those dark corners of my hometown, I wanted to be ready. 

The thing is, I didn't do a lot of making out in that car. Probably because of those bucket seats up front, and because I really was there to drive when I was behind the wheel. Not that I didn't drive the Vega to plenty of places where we could exit the vehicle and carry on free of the constraints of the back seat. And the memories of being a chauffer. 

In the end, I did not simply tire of the Vega. I drove it into the ground. A cracked oil pan exacerbated the problem that already existed with the aluminum block. When I was done with it, there was no trade-in value. It was scrap. I learned to drive on that car. Several of my friends learned to drive on that car. It was the Vega that taught me not just how to drive, but how to care for a car. And now, some forty years after the fact, I can appreciate if for what it was.

*The truth.