While my adult children are still firmly planted in their “light” trucks and SUVs, undeterred by recent safety studies and rising gas prices, I am researching the possibilities for my next vehicle.
I’ve given myself plenty of lead-time on this, my current Saturn having only 67,000 miles, and it’s a good thing. My options, it seems, are limited. All the blather coming from the PR guys at GM and Ford about their collective commitment to the environment and developing alternative fuel technology is just that: Blather, with a capital B. As they are spending much of the huge profits from sales of huge vehicles (whose capacity for hugeness is rarely used by average motorists) on advertising and promotion, the folks in the executive suites, the ones who make the real decisions about what vehicles will be available for us to buy, are whistling a different tune. You’d think they held more stock in Exxon than in their own companies.
I thought my requirements in transportation were pretty basic: Economy, reliability, safety and comfort, in that order. Auto company execs and sales reps find my requirements exotic, anachronistic, maybe even barbaric, and totally unrealistic. I should be more interested in luxury, muscle, image and the perception of success. I’m not.
What brought this all to a boil last week was what I assumed would be a routine service at my usually friendly and efficient dealership. Rule number one: Never make assumptions. My appointment was at 3:30 p.m. and would take about an hour and 15 minutes, give or take. I had done my weekly grocery shopping first, so the trunk was full of canvas grocery bags, two insulated carriers (for frozen food), my emergency kit (shovel, tire inflator, space blanket, water, hiking boots, gloves, flashlight and two plastic sheets to protect the flooring when hauling plants. No duct tape). I walked to the library to return an audio book, then back to my favorite bookstore, where I whiled away the remaining time reading stuff and sipping latte. Nice, but I’m anxious to get home because snow is forecast and the Ridge Route can be treacherous. At precisely 4:45, the service manager greets me with an apologetic look. Bad news, says Jon, I’m so sorry, but one of my crew ran into a cement block wall and damaged your bumper. Jon wants to send the car to the body shop immediately and will give me a rental car for as long as it takes, and is this a convenient time? Well, no. There is no convenient time to give up my car, but what can I do.
Jon helps me transfer the groceries and emergency gear into the capacious trunk of a blue 2002 L series Saturn sedan. Loaded. Power everything, automatic everything, very fancy. I settle into a cushy seat and stare at the dashboard, which may have well been from a space shuttle. Now I’m scared. And a little embarrassed to admit I do not know how to drive this car. And there’s no time to read the manual. Ah, well. Bon Voyage.
Half way up the five-mile grade it’s raining and the wind is blowing a gale. I’m having trouble staying in my lane, power steering is too touchy. Five miles below Gorman, it turns to snow, still blowing, visibility drops to near zero.
The car is sliding and making squidgy noises when I gently apply the brake. I don’t know if this luxury liner has antilock brakes. I find my exit, avoiding a semi that seems wildly out of control, and creep over the bridge and onto the surface road. I notice there are no lights anywhere.
Powerless again in my high-powered car. At less than 5 mph, I gingerly turn up my dirt road and within 10 feet, the wheels are spinning and we have ground to a halt. A yellow light on the dash says insufficient traction. No duh. I push a button marked Trac, and gently rock back and forth until the car proceeds, not very securely, forward. Knowing I will never make the half-mile to my house, I stop at the old ranch house, put on my hiking boots, polar fleece coat, hat and gloves, and wait. When a truck turns up the road, I flash the headlights. It’s my son-in-law in my daughter’s 4-wheel drive Dodge. How embarrassing. Saved by an SUV.
The groceries are transferred again and within five minutes I’m in front of a roaring fire, groceries in a powerless fridge. Two days later, when I return the blue luxury liner, I tell Jon, Please don’t ever let me buy one of these. I’ve had two basic Saturns and one Audi, all with front wheel drive, rack and pinion steering, no power anything, and they all could truck safely up that road on three inches of new snow. Without telling me I have insufficient traction. Jon says it will be increasingly difficult to find a new car like that and for sure, not in a hybrid, low emission vehicle, P-ZEV or whatever. I estimate
I have about eight months to research this before having to make the difficult compromise. I may wind up with a French voiture: Renault, perhaps, or Fiat, Smart, or Twingo. That is, if we can still import things from France. And all because the Big Three are determined to make me care about image, muscle and power.
Merde.