On the highway I couldnt help but feel joy. One, of the freedom of having a car. Really felt like a teenager again. I could literally go anywhere I wanted. Anywhere just happened to be the eyeglass place and Guitar Center. Second, the thrill of an American muscle car. Chevy 350. Pure. Loud. Power.
So I was torn between how fun and how sickeningly wasteful it is. The kind of consumption that is totally unjustifiable. But still, somehow, is.
My second favorite car I have ever owned was a 1975 Lincoln Continental Town Car, 460, dual 4-barrel carbs and straight pipes. A ludicrous amount of power for anyone, much less a 17 year old boy from Indiana. I bet that tree I hit still holds a grudge- 'really? you couldnt have hit me with a Civic?'
The best car I ever owned was a 1971 Volkswagen Type 3 Square back.
A 1975 El Camino is rated at 400 horsepower. The Lincoln, even more.
My little squareback was maybe, MAYBE 60 horses. And it hauled everything I needed and was quicker off the line than both American cars. Not to mention way more fuel efficient. The Lincoln got 10 miles per gallon. But which engorges the good old American erection? The fucking El Camino.
Its a perfect car. You can haul your stuff but its kind of too small to be asked to help your friends move. The main flaw in owning a truck. As Marshall noted, "you can go on a date in it, or go fishing." Its efficient and wasteful, economic and costly, ugly and beautiful.
I forgot how great big old cars are. And the guilt that goes along with the pleasure.
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