My family is saying goodbye to an old friend this week, the Chevy Nova I’ve driven for the last fifteen years is moving on to the next phase of it’s short remaining life. Tomorrow I'll go for what is probably my final drive in what's been "the little car," for years.
1985: I’m 24 year old. The Plymouth Horizon I bought, used, right out of college is dying. There’s a "clunk" in the wheels when I turn right. I’m not certain how much longer it’s going to last, but it’s time for something new. The twenty-eight mile commute to work in Brunswick requires a decent, reliable ride. I try to tell my wife we can’t afford a new car, but she’s adamant. "If you get a used car you’re just buying someone else’s problems," she would say. I still disagree today, but I’ve also never won this argument. We do some research, check out some brochures and buy a book at Waldenbooks in the Mall. There seems to be a consensus that the Chevy Nova, actually Chevrolet’s American version of the Toyota Corolla, is a good buy.
At the dealer in Brunswick, the salesman shows me the features of a shiny new Nova. "Would you like to take it for a drive?" he says. Sure. "Those folks over there were looking at this very car." Really. I bring the car home and show the wife. She approves. Back at the dealership, the salesman works on her, demonstrating the new "Child Safety Door Locks." We laugh, knowing that we’re never going to need those. We drive off in the new car, consigning the old Plymouth to whatever fate awaits, happy that it lasted long enough to finalize the deal.
1986: I’m 25 years old. My college roommate, Ben Gross, his new wife Sue, my wife and I go on a summer vacation to Washington DC in our new Nova. We trade off driving. After visiting all the DC attractions and then making a side trip to Williamsburg, where we rode the Big Bad Wolf Roller coaster at Busch Gardens. The button I buy stays on the sun visor for several years. On the way back in our car, we cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel and return to Maine.
1987: I am 27 years old. On a gray October evening, I load my wife into the Nova for the five or six blocks it takes to get to the Maine Medical Center Emergency Room. A few days later, with the new baby seat installed in the back, the Nova carries our new son home. It looks like we might be needing those child safety locks after all.
1990: I am 29 years old. The Nova carries my wife back to the hospital and our son’s new brother home.
Are machines alive? Of course not. This car is just a thousand pounds of metal, glass and plastic. I think we imbue them with something of our own essence. In interpreting their particular eccentricities, we project a personality upon them. The older they get, the more unique each of them becomes, and because their unique qualities are a direct result of their interactions with us, the driver, they become an extension of us and a reflection of our experiences.
1991 I am 30 years old. On the way back from work in Brunswick, the clutch goes completely. Fortunately my employer does some business with a local Ford dealer and my company pays for my new clutch. By this time the 28 mile commute to work has racked up some hundred thousand miles on the car. The dealer says "If I’d known that before, I would have encouraged you to buy a new one," rather than pay the thousand bucks it cost to repair the clutch.
I’ve owned this car for fifteen years, most of my adult life. I was behind the wheel for most of the two hundred thousand miles it’s traveled. I know it’s moods, and somehow, I’d like to think it knows mine. I’ve been stranded by the side of the road when the timing chain broke or I just skidded into a snow drift. I’ve driven in some serious weather. I’ve jump-started it, probably dozens of times. I know it’s every nuance, every peculiarity. It’s rarely let me down.
1992 (Winter) I’m still 30. My five-year-old son hurts himself sledding. He’s scratched his eye on a stick. We see the pediatrician, but the following day he needs to visit an optometrist. On the way out of work early the next day, in a hurry, around an icy blind turn, I meet a co-worker in her brand new Toyota Corolla. We crash head on. The insurance company writes me a check. I fix enough to get the Nova back on the road, and pocket the rest. It helps pay what we owe the IRS that year. The son eventually gets better. The Nova now sports a primer black fender and a hole in the dash that corresponds to the shape of my left knee.
The Nova in Shinier Days
1992 (Fall) I am 31. It’s time for a new car. We buy the books, do the research, and purchase a Ford Taurus from the dealer who fixed my clutch. From this point on, the Nova is now "the little car." By this time it has more than 150,000 miles on the odometer, but now it’s the secondary car, the miles don’t pile up like they did before.
1993 I am 32. I change jobs. I’m not a disc jockey any more. My commute goes from 28 miles to 2.5 miles.
1999 I am 38. The "little car" is nearly fifteen years old. It’s temperamental and like me, it doesn’t start well on cold mornings. Sometimes it’s downright stubborn about it. My wife is agitating for a new car. I do what every red-blooded American husband would do. I stall. My wife does what every red-blooded American wife would do. She refuses to drive the Nova any longer, no argument. It’s now "Chad’s car."
These days the "little car" is not in the best of shape. The fabric has pulled off the roof on the inside, particularly where my head has rubbed it off. Maybe that’s what happened to my hair. The black primer fender is a lovely shade of rust. The upholstery has holes in it. The clutch is a little loose again and the engine gets cranky on wet days. The exhaust needs work. Of the cars now in my driveway, it’s the oldest and the least likely to be driven, and even then only by me. But get into that seat, adjust the mirror and it’s like putting on an old sneaker. For every contour of my butt there’s a corresponding contour on that seat. They don’t make cars like this one any more. It has a carburetor for goodness sake. This car has no power anything. But it gives you a great feel for the road and is magnificent in the snow.
April 2000 I am 38. I become aware of a new car I might actually go for, the Chrysler PT Cruiser. It’s brand new and I just love the way it looks. Every instinct tells me you shouldn’t buy a car because of how it looks. You shouldn’t buy the first year of a new model. I plunk down the deposit and order one. The wife sees the chance to finally get the new car she knows we need. Now we have to wait for Chrysler to build it, which should take a few months. Meanwhile wife is still refusing to drive my car.
August 2000 Fifteen years after we buy it, my Chevy Nova’s odometer reaches 199,999 miles. I load the boys, now nine and thirteen years old, into the car and we go for a short spin. When it hits 200,000 we cheer, pull over and take a picture of the odometer.
November 2000 I’m now 39. The New PT Cruiser is built and ready for us to pick up. We ask about trading in the Nova, but with more than two hundred thousand miles on it, the trade in value is minimal. I joke with my wife that I’m going to put it up on blocks in the back yard.
Today I took it for a long ride, and tomorrow, after a final 170-mile trip, I deliver it to my sister’s house where her two high school aged children will use it, probably until it dies for good.
Even now I get a little choked up about it. This car that carried me to work
thousands of times, that visited grandma hundreds, carried me on trips near and far, and
brought my kids home from the hospital has been a big part of my life. I know that
tomorrow, when I look at my Nova, "the little car" in the rear view mirror of
the new Cruiser somehow I’ll be leaving a little piece of myself behind.
Chad
Gilley
January 2001
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