I love my car. What’s wrong with that?
In 2003, Phoenix had a “gas crisis,” which only was an inconvenience until the hysteria of the masses set in. After being told repeatedly that there is no crisis, the general populace decided that just in case there was a crisis, they had better fill up every gas tank in every car they owned, plus all the approved containers they could get their hands on. Lo and behold, there was no more gas.
The city practically came to a standstill. The police force stayed at the precinct unless they received a call, except for the poor cops on horses and bicycles (how bad would that job suck?). The buses ran a reduced schedule, and were packed all the time. If you could find gas, it was up to $4 a gallon in some places. There were caps on how much gas you could buy at any one time. People had set up gasoline stands like lemonade stands beside the streets. Times weren’t good for drivers of Hummers.
It was at this time that I first decided that my souped-up Crown Victoria was not the car I should be driving. With a 19-gallon tank, I was paying at least $60 every fill up, sometimes twice a week. The big V8 with the supercharger was fun, but I was lucky to get 15 miles to a gallon in the city, plus I tend to drive a bit fast, so every time I got in the car all I saw were dollar signs. It was time to get something a little more economical to drive. Unfortunately, it took me a couple of years to make the jump.
I figured a small car with a V6 would still be fun to drive with enough zip to keep me happy, and I finally found one I liked: a 1992 BMW 325i - convertible. I bought it cheap - really cheap for the cabriolet model. I fell in love with it before I ever drove it. The list of things that were wrong with it was much longer than the list of things that were great about it, except for two things: it was a ragtop and it was the coolest shade of light metallic blue (gletscherblau - Glacier Blue). What else mattered?
So what if the tires were dry-rotted, if the “new” top was full of holes, or if one of the previous owners had reupholstered the interior with a cheap black velour that faded to brown in the sun? Who cares if the entire front suspension was shot from being misaligned and then sitting for six months, or if the air conditioning was “out of freon”? (By the way, in case you’re wondering, in used-car speak, “out of freon” actually means the compressor is broken and the hoses are cracked - good luck with that. ) The list goes on and on. And I learned that if you can’t fix it yourself, it’s really costly to have someone else do it.
But from that point on, I was a BMW man, but more importantly, I was a convertible man. I actually feel like I’ve been outside for the day when I come home with the top down, even though I’ve only been outside for a grand total of about forty-five minutes. Want to find a way to make your meaningless cubicle job tolerable? Drive there in a convertible. Have a day full of meaningless errands and pointless stops? Drop the top and enjoy your day in the sun. These things are completely mood-altering, always for the better.
I love this car.
