I drive the same car that I've driven since I went away to college almost six years ago. And let's just say that my 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity has seen better days.
It has 123,000 miles on it, and has been in two serious accidents -- one wreck goofed up the front end, the other messed the back end and sides. Because of the time spent my car in the Bay area without being washed enough, the white paint is peeling, exposing a gray undercoat. Throw in the color of the rust from certain parts of the car, and it can be officially classified as a calico.
And being an aging car, my car makes a variety of deeply interesting noises. It has certain rattles that would make a diamondback snake envious. The engine putters occasionally; up until recently (when I had them fixed), my car's breaks squeaked, too. Suffice it to say, my car makes a loud entrance wherever it goes.
There have been a number media events I have driven to where I have been deeply embarrassed. I remember I went to a recent grand opening; let's just say I did not exactly sneak up on the various dignitaries and other media members there.
Imagine. First they heard SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK, then PUTTER RATTLE PUTTER RATTLE. Then, when I rounded the corner, they first saw my Celebrity's tilted, crumpled front end. As I came closer -- the SQUEAK SQUEAK PUTTER RATTLE reaching quite a tumultuous volume -- they got to see the fascinating array of colors my car exhibits, not to mention the abstract topography of its uneven sides.
I really felt like entering the Federal Witness Protection Program, changing my name to Biff, moving to Des Moines and taking a job as a hot dog meats processor.
And seeing as I was representing the Tribune ... let's just say that had the newspaper management seen my triumphant arrival, they may have elected to not fire me -- but to shoot me instead.
I have often thought how much of a hoot it would be to drive my car (which sports the classy "Stanford Alumni Association" license plate frame) in front of the journalism department at Stanford, and when students emerge from classes, point to the vehicle and shout, "THIS IS YOUR FUTURE! LOOK AT IT! THIS IS ALL YOU WILL BE ABLE TO AFFORD, YOU GOOBERS! HA HA HA HA!
And then they could take me away to a nice padded place with all-you-can-eat Jell-O and Prozac.
Having said all that, let me give you a little more information about my car. In the nearly six years I have had it, I've put 65,000 of those miles on it; I am one who wrecked it twice. I was the one who neglected to wash it, leading in part to the peeling paint and rusty parts. It has only a four-cylinder engine, and yet I have driven it over Donner Summit numerous times, loaded to the brim, going to and from college. It has been in temperature extremes from -20 to +110 degrees; it's been pushed to 90 mph on the freeway, and it has been in plenty of slow Bay area rush hour traffic.
And until last week, it has never, ever let me down.
Even when it did break down last Tuesday as I was visiting a friend in Sun Valley, I could still have driven it if I had needed to. A power steering hose inexplicably burst, meaning that anytime I turned the wheel whatsoever, all the fluid gushed out and made sounds like a cow attempting to give birth to a Peterbilt.
I did not want to hurt my car any worse, so I had it towed home. I was without it for two days while it was repaired, and in its stead, I drove my mom's Ford Tempo -- a solid, newer car that by any standards would be nicer than mine.
But you know what? As comparatively nice as the Tempo was, I missed my Celebrity. In that Chevy, I went away to and graduated from school. It took me safely to and from by big-time journalism job in the Big City each day, and it brought me back home to Nevada.
It is my car. It's a piece of aging machinery, nothing more; don't get me wrong. But it has never really let me down (knock on wood!).
I will probably be driving the Celebrity for a little while longer, barring a horrible break-down or accident. And while I'd easily prefer a new Saturn, I have no problem sticking with the Celebrity. Even if it does embarrass me on occasion, it gets me to and from the places I need to be -- and that's what a car is really all about, isn't it?
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who thanks Dan for the use of his truck, Mom for the use of her car, Ben for the rides and Dad for helping him with his cars since the day he turned 16. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays; he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@alumni.stanford.org.