I’m reminded of the guy on PBS who is having a tough time letting go of his old vehicle. Having made the decision to donate the aging sedan to his local public television station, he is clearly having second thoughts. He sits behind the wheel, he hugs the hood, he sits on the back bumper head in his hands. “Time to Say Goodbye” plays in the background, as a soothing voice tells him how much better he’ll feel when it’s gone. As the car drives away, the guy runs after it. Voiceover says, “Well, maybe in a day or so.”
That’s kind of where I am right now. My trusty Saturn Ion has been signed over to Montana Imports and I’m driving a gently used Subaru Outback Wagon. The Ion had only 45,000 miles on it, just half the mileage of my first two Saturns when I sold them to friends, who, incidentally, are still my friends.
All three Saturns were economical, reliable and comfortable, and this one was definitely not past its prime. Trouble is, there are no Saturn dealers in Montana and getting parts is a nightmare. It seems GM designers had the idea, for reasons known only to themselves, of locating the battery in the trunk, nestled beside the spare. This requires a special battery with a vent, a feature unknown to Montana mechanics.
After three days of having to start the car in negative double-digit temperatures, the battery was beginning to struggle. Actually, the whole car was struggling. It needed a 15-minute warm-up before the gears would shift, or the dashboard dials could be moved or the steering wheel would turn without complaint. Also, the windshield wipers were frozen solid to the glass. I actually felt sorry for it.
You see, on the drive up from California, it had carried me safely through a particularly nasty stretch of road up a steep grade into the Targhee Forest. The two-lane road was icy; blowing snow cut visibility to a dozen yards, and a semi forced me over onto a turnout where my tires spun crazily.
With white knuckles and shoulder muscles throbbing, I made it to West Yellowstone coming to a sliding stop at a Conoco station. I called my daughter Betty in Bozeman to ask whether I should hole up there or soldier on to Big Sky. She said the worst was behind me and the rest should be easy; well, comparatively easy. Actually, it was.
I vowed to treat the car to a set of Blizzak tires. I hope whoever designed these soft, ice-gripping wonders made a mint. He deserves it. Blizzaks have made chains, and even studded tires, obsolete. The Saturn and I were both happy. At least until the mercury plunged.
Back at the tire dealer, they charged my battery and researched fitting the car with one of those engine heaters for cars that have to live outside. Apparently, you just plug your car into an electric outlet at night, just as if it were an electric car. Betty doesn’t have one because her car lives in a well-insulated garage with her dogs. We learn that the Saturn can’t be fitted with a heater, or any other “after market” parts.
Timing is everything, they say, and I suppose that’s true. The confluence of these difficulties with the arrival of my insurance claim settlement moved me to consider a trade in. Even though I’ve never given up a car with less than 80,000 miles on it, destiny seemed to be calling. My sister, my kids, everybody was telling me to get a Subaru. It’s by far the most popular car in the northwest, equipped as it is with all wheel drive, a thrifty, low emission, four-cylinder engine, a winter package that includes heated seats and a strip along the lower windshield that prevents the wipers from freezing. Yes!
The sales rep tactfully steered me to one of six 2006 Outback wagons that had been turned in by corporations. None had more than 12,000 miles. And one was blue. He offered to let me take it out for a spin. I told him I’d had enough of spinning, thank you very much, but I would like to drive it on the interstate to check out the steering at highway speed. Betty and I actually had to ask him to accompany us. How’s that for no pressure? It felt solid, power steering not too touchy, visibility good, acceleration peppy for a small engine, the automatic transmission (with manual option) just what’s needed for crawling on the 405. I’m liking it. Betty says, “It looks like you, Mom.”
Now comes the hard part. The guilt. My trusty Saturn sits shivering on its new Blizzak tires on a strange lot. We’ve been through a lot together. It really never failed me even though I asked a lot of it. It’s just ill equipped for Rocky Mountain winters. Sorry, my friend.
I guess it’s time to say goodbye. But I still feel like that guy on PBS.