I tend to easily fall in love. Some women, I know for a fact, have this problem with men. I have this problem with cars. My first, a rusty, gas-fume-filled ‘68 Volkswagen bug with holes in the floor (not for ventilation) was my ride for five years. For no apparent reason, she abandoned me in rural Vermont, then later on Interstate 93 halfway between Boston and NH. I still went back for her.

She would sometimes run out of gas with gauges showing over half a tank. Fools broke into her and tried to steal the radio, leaving a folding knife and a pool of blood for their effort. Finally, the last straw, the transmission linkage broke, making shifting something of a proposition. I traded her for a new ’78 Malibu, as bland a car as was ever made. I was driving my new love and there, on Route 128, was the old bug, dead and abandoned, her Dartmouth decal still festooned across the rear window. The 50 bucks the Chevy dealer gave me for her had been too much. No doubt the linkage problem went from stubborn to faggetaboudit.

Yes, the Malibu was a dog. She had a V6 engine that had the temerity to be both inefficient and slow. The stock AM-FM radio did attract the junkies who steal such things and surrendered, leaving a black hole in the dash I never refilled. Within weeks, when the plastic M on the rear nameplate disappeared, she was henceforth referred to as the ‘alibu. Girls were not impressed, though the car did evoke a certain humility and utilitarianism, an early hint of conservatism as yet undiscovered, and it had a bench seat. So she had her charm.  I loved old ‘alibu, a car born middle-aged.

I was never good about getting ‘alibu serviced, so in a fit of concern, I took her to a gas station over by MIT for an oil and lube. These were not MIT-level mechanics and they failed to refill the oil reservoir before I picked her up. I paid them, drove away and soon noticed loud mechanical noises coming from the engine compartment. I pulled over and checked the dipstick. It was red hot and dry.  I limped her back to the gas station and they added five quarts of oil. From that point on, the ‘alibu’s valves issued loud ticks as the pistons cycled. As the RPMs revved, it turned into an obnoxious whine.

When my new girlfriend told me she was amused that I, an up-and-coming CPA from a top Boston firm, drove such a humble (humiliating?) vehicle, I knew she was the one. Since there were no tunes, on our first date I offered to sing to her myself. She was an actress and singer, a professional who made something of a living at it. She has since told me that this was when she knew I was different; some 20 months later, we married. It’s now been 42 years.

‘alibu whined past 100K miles and started to overheat. It was winter and I found that if I blasted the heater, the “TEMP” idiot light would turn off. I continued to use the car, the heat perpetually on full sauna mode.  Even on the coldest, single-digit mornings, I had to open the windows, which must have seemed strange to other drivers.

The car had other problems. She would start on those cold mornings, but until the engine came up to temperature, it would cough and spit.  If you put the car in gear before she warmed up, it would stall. I’d sit in the driveway and wait as the car choked and fogged the neighborhood with its noxious spew. Our landlord, who lived on the first floor of our triple-decker, told me that this situation was untenable. As a cheap do-it-yourselfer, I lengthened the automatic choke coil by screwing to it the hook from a painting hanger. This forced the carburetor to open so the car could breathe. The fogging stopped.

Spring came and the overheating turned chronic. I’d have to pull over to the side of the highway, turn off the car and wait for the engine to cool so that I could limp another five or ten miles. Mornings were easier as the air outside was still cool, but returning home was another issue. It took me hours to make a 25-mile return commute.

‘alibu needed to be put down. I had a client, a car dealer, in Gloucester. There I’d seen a new four-door Pontiac Sunbird Turbo, two-tone, beige over brown, four-speed stick. It seemed just the right combination of speed, practicality, and dare for a newlywed CPA. The ‘alibu limped the 30 miles to Gloucester, worth $500 in the trade, stopping several times. I drove off with my new love, the Sunbird Turbo.

There was reason to love this new little car. It had a stout little iron-block engine, borrowed from GM’s Brazil commercial truck line-up and coupled with a turbocharger. She was quick and powerful. In first gear and under acceleration, as the turbocharger spun up, actual direction was unpredictable. She would dart left or right, torque steer, depending on how hard you pressed the accelerator. I learned never to accelerate out of a ticket booth when entering the Mass Pike. That was a good way to spoil the paint on a fender or worse. But where this little car really impressed was on the highway. Pontiac had beefed up the suspension and added wide, sticky Goodyear high-performance tires. It hunkered down and pushed past 100 MPH with aplomb. There was much beyond that, I could tell, but I was still a young, up-and-coming Boston CPA and soon-to-be father. So I never pushed past 110. Did I tell you I loved that car?

Then, she was stolen. My young wife took it to a rehearsal in Boston and parked it in a BU parking lot. After more than three weeks, Liberty Mutual was about to settle our claim when the BPD called. They found the car in Dorchester, front seat broken and replaced with a milk crate, wheels and tires, missing. Liberty said that she could be repaired. A couple of weeks later, I picked her up. She looked perfect, but wasn’t. Within a week, as I sat in traffic on Memorial Drive, something went. The clutch. The sound was horrible, metal on metal, could wake the dead. The clutch was ruined. Liberty agreed to fix it and admitted that yes, the thieves had been racing the car and had likely ruined the clutch.

What else? It was soon winter again and on one particularly cold morning commute, I glanced down to see that the temperature gauge was pegged HOT!  Remembering the ‘alibu, I pushed the fan on full and pressed heat, but I missed. In my haste, I actually pushed the lever all the way to defrost and in a loud whump, the windshield cracked into a million pieces, yet remained intact, clinging to its plastic inner lining. With less than 20K miles on the odometer, the Sunbird had a blown head gasket.

Months had passed since the theft, so this time, Liberty Mutual balked. They would make no more repairs. I replaced the windshield myself, bought some Bardahls gasket repair and added it to the radiator. This sludge would clog the leak and last a week or two, but the repair would eventually give way, especially if I pushed the engine at all. What fun is a turbocharged engine if you can’t use it? A new head gasket was costly, a thousand or more, so a decision had to be made. It was time to be a responsible, almost 30-year-old, married CPA, a new homeowner, and soon, a new father. I needed a new car. This time it would be a more practical choice.

Toyota was the first dealership we visited, for the new Camry. The used car appraiser looked over the Sunbird with the chrome “Turbo” emblems on the front fenders and the tail. The car was still very handsome and smart. He asked if she was fast and I shrugged. He took the keys and raced off with a smile only to return with a frown in a cloud of sweet, radiator fluid infused smoke. The Bardahl’s had let loose. We didn’t buy a Camry.

Bardahl’s was reintroduced back at home and we headed for the Honda dealer. A new used car guy was too impressed with the low-mileage, two-tone Sunbird to even take it on a test drive. We bought a 1989 Accord with flip-top headlights and an automatic transmission. It was the first of a long line of Honda products, all of which were unremarkable except for their remarkable longevity and reliability. I guess I loved them all, the way a man loves that 40-year-old GE beer fridge in the garage that refuses to give in to the Phoenix summer heat. Even when I could choose a company car, I stayed with Honda; I just moved up to the more prestigious Acura label.

Then I retired and had to give up the company car. I settled on an older, low-mileage, used Lexus. I didn’t buy a new car because, well, I’m a frugal Yankee at heart and couldn’t justify the cost. Now the wife’s Honda van is approaching 200K miles and I have to admit that it would be nice to have at least one new (or newer) car for these supposed “trips” she expects to take this summer. We did Yellowstone last year and the van performed admirably, with little struggle. I fully expected the trip might prove too much for the old girl, but it wasn’t. She shouldered the interstates, mountains, wind, and rain like a champion, a bit arthritic and cranky perhaps, not the athletic girl she once was, but 200K miles will do that.

My wife has driven a white Honda Odyssey, in various iterations, since 1999. Another would be easy, but she is not so inclined. I can’t blame her. We tried the much-acclaimed Kia Telluride, everyone’s favorite, but dealers have added so much expensive paint sealant, window tint, and tire nitrogen, sometimes more than $10K worth, to make them unbuyable. Will someone tell these people that the air we breathe is nearly all nitrogen anyway, so why bother? Hyundais, Buicks, Mazdas, Toyotas, Subarus, Hondas, and Nissans failed to inspire her. Acuras, Infinities, BMWs, and Volvos came up short. She doesn’t want to try Fords or Jeeps. So we languish, compare specs and features, refer to Car and Driver, Consumer Reports, and other reviews. Nothing jumps to the front.

In order to help her with this, I’ve become something of an expert on these vehicles. I can tell her which is the more expensive, has the best mileage, has the most issues or complaints. I can tell her which can be had in a white exterior and beige interior and which have her favorite 360=camera feature. But none of this seems to sway her. She remains uncommitted.

There are four months left until summer. Mazda is releasing an early 2024 XC90, a larger version of the XC9 that my wife thought too small and lacking features. The XC90 corrects that. Toyota is coming out with a new Grand Highlander, which addresses my wife’s complaint that the current Highlander is too small. Both present me with the “new model year” reliability dilemma, but I will ignore that if she chooses. And Honda is redoing the Odyssey, but it probably won’t be available until fall.

If I were a betting man, I’d bet we’ll be taking the old van on a few trips this summer. I’d also bet we’ll be driving her progeny in the fall. It’s time to give the old girl a little love, perhaps some new rear shocks. She’s been a good horse, that one.