To a Veverka, driving is sort of a big deal. At the dinner table, it was not uncommon to eat while listening to my dad read excerpts from Road & Track or Car & Driver. And speaking of dinner, there were plenty of times I can recall ordering light on account of being tilt-a-whirlled in the back seat of a 911 on the way to a restaurant, traveling the most curvy route possible.
My dad loves cars; loves to drive. As a result, my driver's training was unconventional. Parallel parking, city navigating, and the like were left for me to stumble through on my own. I was taught the most important pillars of operating an automobile; to corner, watch for the fuzz, and maximize a car's potential.
By 3 years of age, I began telling people, "When I'm 6, my daddy is going to buy me a black Audi." During my freshman year of college, after Dad's black Chevy pickup powered by a 454 finally drove it's last mile, I needed a car. Dad found a sensible Audi coup. Not black, but I was happy. Not the most thrilling to drive, but I soon became aware that it would keep me on my toes.
At random, the alarm would sound, leaving me scrambling to quiet it. The most effective method was to beat on the horn, soothing the temperamental brat until time for the next tantrum. I surrendered to leaving the driver's side window down for easy horn beating access in the middle of the night. In connection to this behavior, the horn would honk when least expected, offending, angering, and perplexing pedestrians and drivers near.
A decade and a half ago, fed up with the torment and taunting by my Audi, I purchased a shiny green VW Passat. Only several years old, I was beside myself with excitement. The V6 was powerful & quick. Handling capabilities left a lot to be desired, but it was a normal car. The alarm fired at appropriate times, and aside from an odd electrical bleed, it ran great. Gone were my days of fuming about warm or cold start issues, running from class or bed to quiet the alarm, and feeling like I was harassed by an automobile.
After a few years, this feeling of peace began to fade on a late night drive on I5. The check engine light illuminated the dash. At the next exit, I pulled over. As I slowed, the light mysteriously dimmed. Pulling back onto the freeway and getting back up to speed, the light flashed on again. After five or so exits of this same scenario, I ignored the light. It turns out, the short was in the check engine light itself.
The Passat continued to be a little glitchy and a bit of a nightmare to work on (thanks Dad!) but kept running... and running, even after a minor accident on Snoqualmie Pass. With great patience, my husband drove the car every day to work while I drove our daughters around in his car. By 220,000 miles, it was time to find the old girl a new home.
I drafted a quick add on craigslist, attracting a surprising number of interests. Here it is:
93 Passat GLX (V6) 5 speed manual $750
220,000 miles
Reconstructed Title
The bad / needs to be done:
O2 sensor (runs rich)
Side view mirrors missing glass
Cracked windshield
Floor board in rear seat is wet when rains
Has some dents & scuffs
Leaking rear main seal. Not terrible, but leaking.
Sun roof needs help sliding closed if opened
2 driver's side door handles need fixing
Clear coat peeling
Drooping headliner
The good / things that have been done:
Runs
Comes with repair manual
Heater core
New battery
Good tires
Shocks
An eager dad of a teenage daughter arrived to buy the car. I handed him the keys for a test drive. As he turned the ignition over, a backfire like none I've heard before shot through the neighborhood. White faced and terrified, the guy bolted out of the driver's seat and handed me the key. "I think I'll have to pass" were his words. "That makes good sense," were mine.
Now, only by keeping the RPM's at 3,500 or higher would the car keep running, seemingly starving itself out of fuel. On the ground beneath the car were an assortment of shattered VW parts, including thermostat housing.
I realize that personifying a vehicle sounds silly, but I believe that there is no other explanation than this: That dang Passat, after being replaced by a newer model and put up for sale for merely more that scrap, was pissed. It threw it's last and final fit, disabling it's tired self in the driveway, parking in the new car. "In your face!" I'm pretty sure it was taunting.
Now the old car sits at Astoria Auto Wrecking, waiting to be parted out and inevitably crushed... and yes, I feel just a tad bit sad about it. As I signed the title over, I felt compelled to give a quick rundown of the car's history. The gentleman listened patiently. I could tell that he was thinking, "This girl has sort of a weird relationship with this car..."
P.S. Here is my Audi Coupe Quattro, now on jack stands in my dad's shop. I'm still too sad to talk about it...
