The Cars of My Life (A Day 12 List)

The Cars of My Life
by Clarence, Igor, and Me 

Name the most popular topics addressed through 20 years at Gheorghe: The Blog. I think you’d hit:

• sports 
• music 
• parties, bars, beer, and other alcohol 
• inspirational people of diminutive stature 
• underdog stories 
• alfonso ribeiro shirtless 
• and a wee, wee bit of political content (sometimes just what politicos do with their wee-wees) 

…but especially lately, you’d also have to include cars. Mostly Zman’s indelible influence on G:TB, and much for the better. While the WCSAGD series remains the apex of this subject, there are plenty of other automotive instances that have graced the virtual pages here. 

We also enjoy recounting utterly ridiculous tales of yesteryear involving gheorghies and FOGTB. Of which there are more than a few. 

Well, get ready to put your hands together. I’m here to add another List of 12 to my Day 12 tally. May I please present for your perusing pleasure: 

The 12 Cars of My Life and the 3 Morons Who Drove Them 

(with minstrel-style lyrical accompaniment courtesy of Les Coole) 

Do you remember the first car you ever rode in? The first car you remember your family having? 

My first ten years in this regard are mostly blurry, for reasons that differ from the blurred days and nights of ages 18-22. We always had Volvos; my great-uncle Pat owned and operated White’s Imports in Mobile, AL since 1959 (that was their last name, not Jim Crow signage, you creeps) and they brought Swedish and British (MG’s) class to the Gulf Coast. So, the rest of the family bought Volvos at good rates. 

We also had a station wagon, something in the GM family, with the faux-wood paneling and reverse seat in the rear. Road trips… yes. I think it may have been green. Maybe even “metallic pea,” like the Wagon Queen Family Truckster? Anyway, let’s fan through the ether and get to the cars I really remember. The ones with lasting impressions. Oh… and the preposterous things that my friends have done to in and to these cars, when (in)appropriate. 

1. 1980 Jeep Renegade soft top, navy blue 

My soon-to-be-stepdad Ed bought this in 1980. My stepbro/fratbro Ian, my sister Kate, and I would squeeze in the miniscule back seat while my mom and Ed sat up front arguing about why this vehicle was or was not the worst purchase Ed could have made with a 5-person family in mind. But it was awesome. We cruised around town and down to the beach with the top off. That’s right. Ed’s Jeep was boss, albeit impractical at times. 

Ridiculous memory (1984): Nothing too shocking, as I was never old enough to drive it. We took it up to Summit, NJ to see my aunt and uncle one weekend, and I remember playing Mad Libs. Ed was (presumably still is) a hoot, and his mad-libbed names were oft comprised of locales we passed along the way, Hence, monikers like “Jacques Tenafly” stick in family memory for 40 years. 

2. 1986 Audi 5000, navy blue 

Dad always had nice cars… after he split from Mom and married into a new tax bracket. (Sorry, Dad, but chances are you will never even know about this blog). He had multiple Audis in the 80’s, and this one was the nicest. A sleek ride with a cool stereo (not quadraphonic Blaupunkt, but Dolby cassette). Not the type of auto you give to a 16-year miscreant to get from A to B. 

 * * * QUICK ASIDE * * * 

[Ed. Note: my folks made the call not to hook me up with my own wheels when I was in high school. Didn’t get me a beater that I could help pay for and care for and learn on and mess up and make my own. I get it. I was as irresponsible as any kid my age. However, given that they then wanted me to depart the residence, have a social life, and leave them alone, short of leaving me hanging with a bus pass, they had to let me borrow their cars. I can’t say for sure, but they may have ultimately regretted that course of action. You be the judge: read on. And if you think Whitney messed up these cars, let me assure you that friends Clarence and Igor did way, way worse things!] 

Ridiculous memory (1987): The Audi era drew closer to a close after Clarence, Igor, and I took the car out for a hot August night in Norfolk. After ingesting some of Dr. Leary’s medicine, a few inhalations of cheeba, and a pitcher or two over tacos at Speedy’s near ODU, Igor felt he was okay and drove a few friends and us in the Audi into a seedy part of town. And that's where unbelievably (people say I'm fabricating this but I swear this is how I remember it) some randouche threw a dirt clog into the side of Dad’s car and ran away. There are a dozen peripherally preposterous stories from this evening, but sticking to the car saga… twas bad. 

My recourse was nil; my comeuppance was steep…
Father awoke from not-deep-enough sleep…
I hadn’t garaged his once-lovely coach…
In it he found two cans and a roach…
Oh, Clarence… Oh, Igor… Oh, me...

3. 1985 Mercedes 300TD wagon, metallic light blue 

When I was in high school, Ed got rid of the Jeep Renegade and bought something much more family-friendly. A used Mercedes wagon, she rode pretty well and had very few issues. I was mostly denied driving access to this baby except to the store and what-not. Mostly. 

Ridiculous memory (1987): There was a party taking place on an undeveloped plot of land by the Elizabeth River called Fort Norfolk. Bonfire and such, definitely going to get busted quickly. As such, Clarence, Igor and I scooted over there early, go-getters that we were. Clarence hopped in the driver’s seat once the po-po showed, and we sped out of there across the bumpy dirt at an unrealistic clip. (16-year-olds with beer who don’t chuck the beer when the cops come but instead wisely hang onto it have to move fast.) The Benz bottomed out in a sizable dip with a menacing volume that evoked one blurt: oh, shit. But she was fine, or fine enough! Unscathed! 

Clarence thinks he’s funny as can be
Igor drinks til he can’t see
I just shrink into my seat
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

4. 1984 Volvo GL, maroon 

This was my baby. I mean, it wasn’t my baby (thanks, Mom and Dad), but this was the car I drove the most in my youth. Volvos were absolute tanks, so I think my folks felt relatively safe with me in it. I mean just look at that fuckin’ thing. Steel bars in the doors, I was told. I logged a lot of moronic miles around town in that mother. The Red Baron, we called her. (I feel like that’s a common car sobriquet.) Well, we certainly put the Red Baron to the tank test through the years. 

Ridiculous memory (1987): A dandy. One night after a few too many Goebels, Busches, or Beasts, Igor took the wheel. We were in one of the nicer neighborhoods in town. My buddy Ned was with us, long before he matured and became a guy who wrote songs about Mardi Gras and Jimmy Buffett. After veering errantly into some hedges and taking a chunk of them out with no impediment to the Red Baron’s progress, Ned suggested that we “do that again!” Oh, boy. 

Ahem, I’ll skip a bit, brother. After arriving home, I noticed a headlight was smashed. Ed then noticed that something akin to an oak tree was stuck up under the car. The next day I rode around town with Mom surveying the damage Igor had done. She’s a goodly and honest woman, but even she had to cut losses; after passing several instances of hedge-havoc, abruptly she said, “Let’s go home” before the poor residents could identify the marauding assailant. 

Clarence gets so I can’t manage
Igor’s mostly into damage
I just wish that I could banish
Clarence, Igor and me 

4a: Interlude: Not our car this time! 1979 Volkswagen Dasher wagon, silver 

My buddy Eise, who’s a lot like Igor, was one of my best friends in the 1980’s. You can hear his supporting vocals on a Les Coole track when he sings, “I remember a time.” Eise made terrrrible decisions. Suppose he still might. He’s a farmer in WV. He used to get access to this banged-up baby from time to time. We called it the Crasher, but one night it took on a new meaning. 

Ridiculous memory (1987): On occasion, someone in our midst would gin up some grit and do something colossally hair-brained. For once, it wasn’t Clarence, Igor, or me! In this case, one Friday night senior year, courtesy of a fake Va license, our friends Gretch and Tig rented a hotel room at the oceanfront on 19th Street or so in Va Beach. A real peach of a place just north of by-the-hour. And then invited all of our friends to congregate there. Clarence brought some light rum, and someone else brought the heavy metal. It wasn’t even very late when the door knocked loudly. Clarence opened the door to officers who didn’t wait to be politely invited in. Fortunately for Clarence, and it remains a mystery as to how or why, he opened the door with the hand that contained a Bacardi bottle. So when 5-0 rushed right by him, he assessed the situation and slipped out the door with some booze while the trouble stayed. 

Clarence, Igor, and I met up with Eise at the Dasher. Since we’d told our parents we were spending the night at each other’s house, we had zero plan. Or cellphones to regroup with the scattered cockroaches we called friends. Out of luck, and with a football game to play the next day, we drove to school. Yep. Drank the rum and slept in the Dasher, cranking heat to battle the late October cold, then waking up in a sweat and turning the car off. Over and over. Sometime pre-dawn the nightwatchman knocked on the window and said we had to vacate the premises. So we drove just across the street from school and resumed our slumber. We lost that football game, by the way. And it wasn’t close. 

5. Saab 900 turbo convertible, black 

Ah, the midlife crisis. Dad wasn’t driving jalopies prior, but somewhere around age 42 he went for a test drive in this hot little number and bit. The Saab could really jet, dangerously quick but snug as a bug in a rug when it cornered. Terrible blind spots with the top up. Lordy, that was dicey. 

I really loved this car. (So did Seinfeld.) And I was actually able to land a few dates at this age; there was nothing quite as cool to 17-year-old Whitney as pulling up in that sucker. Black Beauty, she was labeled. There’s no way this car should be lent to reckless teens. Ah, but it was. 

Ridiculous memory (1988): I now live in a Norfolk neighborhood called Ghent, as I did in high school. There’s a neighboring neighborhood to the west called West Ghent. We Norfolkers are super clever. West Ghent abuts the train yard of Norfolk Southern, a Fortune 500 railway company that used to be HQed here. (And in Rootsy’s town before that.) Along the railyard is a street of straightaway that leads into the yard, about 400-500 feet of unadulterated, unintersected road. Since reaching driving age we have called it the Speedway. We used to gauge the giddyup of various vehicles back then, mostly late in the evening after a few of what our football coach from Massapequa called “yellow Pepsi’s.” The Speedway required a little bit of manual and pedal dexterity, what with the waggle left at the end to avoid the tree in a parking lot to the swim club. Floor it, really gun it, keep it straight, steady, steady, okay brake, waggle left, get it back to about 10 mph, look to see if anyone was around watching us. Let’s do that again. 

As soon as the keys to the Saab were in my hand, there were three priorities. I wanted to put the top down. Clarence wanted to take it over 100. And Igor wanted to test out the Speedway. Eise and Ned were both part of the stupidity, and I can’t remember what lofty number we notched on that stretch of pavement (I know, criminal not to have it etched in memory), but I can tell you that Clarence got his wish on the ride home to Virginia Beach more than once.

Clarence chugs while riding ‘gun
Igor revs it to a hundred and one
What started out as so much fun
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

6. 1986 Jeep CJ-7, white 

My stepmom was a BMW loyalist throughout the 1980’s, and she had a series of models I thought were pretty bad-assed; she ended that streak by buying a Lexus before I’d heard of the company. She and I never quite achieved simpatico, predominantly because I hung around with the likes of Clarence and Igor, but she was cool in a number of ways, and car taste was one. As a fun extra car along the way, she bought a Jeep. Take it down to the Martha Wood Cottage, run summer errands with the top off (aww yeah), and let it sit in the driveway idle for most of its life. After I turned 16, there were two things my stepmom encouraged me to do, and they both involved learning manual transmission. One was to learn to drive my dad’s Honda motorcycle (which collected even more dust), and the other was to take her Jeep out for a spin now and again. Pretty cool. 

Ridiculous memory (1988): Beyond the ridiculous memory of learning to drive stick in this Jeep (think spasmic shaking and sputtering out ad nauseum), there was the time that Ned and a few others joined us for a Jeep ride around VB. We didn’t get out of Dad’s neighborhood before we got pulled over. We’d disrobed the vehicle of her top and doors (that’s right) and decided that folding the windshield down was an even better idea. It wasn’t. Luckily Clarence and Igor weren’t around or we’d have had some contraband on board and it would’ve been worse. I got off with a warning, just an order to wear protective eyewear when driving it. I threw on some cliched aviator Ray-Bans and put her into first gear. (And then put the windshield up. Windshield down is super dangerous.) 

7. 1990 Honda Accord DX, dark red 

By the time the sun had set on my sophomore year of college, my dad was pretty sick of arranging rides to and fro for me. It’s just Williamsburg, 45 minutes to an hour northwest, but it became annoying. Trains, buses, rides, etc. I think that’s what it was… maybe Dad was tired of my friends and me destroying his beautiful vehicles. Maybe he’d inked a big commercial real estate deal. Whatever the logic, he bought me a car, and I’ll be damned (either way but especially) if he didn’t go large for me. A brand new Honda Accord. $12k. I mean, it was DX, meaning cloth seats and power nothing, but he threw in some floor mats and AC for me. I was ecstatic. I paid for the AM/FM cassette player option. Then my mixtapes and I hit the road, baby. 

I had this Accord for 6 great years, and short of bad alignment blowing out not one but two tires on a rugby road trip to Mary Wash (BTW, the Accord is limited to one spare tire), she held up wonderfully. A great car, and the first one I could call mine own. You always remember your first. 

Ridiculous memories (1990-96): Too many to count. I thought I’d left Clarence and Igor in Norfolk when I went off to matriculate, but they did pop in for road trip visits here and there. An hour after inking the paperwork to get the car at Williamsburg Honda (actually in Norge), I scooped my gf and we hit the Ramones show at the Boathouse in Norfolk. (I was supposed to meet Dave and rob there, but like Tojo, they they never made it.) I made lots of unwise choices in the Accord, but she was great on long trips like Spring Break Daytona, summer job Cape Cod (x2), Fall Break NYC, OBFT’s, and many a rugby away match. Good days. 

8. 1996 Honda Accord EX, hunter green 

I had made just enough dough in my super-mediocre government employ to afford an upgrade to my Accord… with another Accord. Why wouldn’t I? Great cars, they were. I swapped red for green, since the holidays were nearing, and I splurged for the EX edition, meaning power everything! Leather seats! A 12-disc changer in the trunk! Yeeha! I kept the manual transmission, though, because it’s just better driving, and wieners couldn’t borrow my car. 

I kept this car until 2000, when the wife and I bought a row house in DC with no parking and I metroed or cabbed to work. (The old, archaic, inane concentric Zone Method of taxi rates in DC at the time meant I could get to work for $4.) So I sold my car to curious old fraternity pal Ed Lee, who ran a shop that had “two Koreans selling Japanese cars to Mexicans,” a tagline that doesn’t hold up as well now. And with that, I was carless. 

Ridiculous memory (1997): Who’s ready for more Igor?? Well… in 1997, I was engaged to be married, and what better way to get prepped for the aisle-walk than to hit Mardi Gras a few months prior? With your fiancée’s college-aged sister, and some of her friends? Yep. Prudent. I cruised down from DC to Lynchburg on a Friday afternoon, scooping up a couple of co-eds for the drive to New Orleans. I repeat: the drive to New Orleans. Yep. Prudent. My soon-to-be sister-in-law (we can just call her “Hyphen”) and her pal got into the green Accord with me about 5pm, armed with some vodka and Sprite. I’d packed a beer cooler. NOLA-bound. What could go wrong? 

11+ hours later: I am beat from driving all the way and ask for some relief. In the form of a new driver. The two of them head up front, and I sack out in the back seat. Out in 30 seconds.
23 minutes later: I bolt awake to the sound of two young women screaming. Wide open Mississippi Highway, three lanes of wide open stretch going each way with a broad gully between. Off in the far distance, the sight of a car headed our way. Like barreling down right at us. You’re going the wrong way, we said, but to no avail. Behind that driver was a fleet of cops with flashers a-flashing. Yipes. Hyphen pulled onto the shoulder (and then some) as we watched the perp flee right by us, followed by the posse of police. Scary shit, but exciting. 

I didn’t fall back asleep for the remaining couple of home-stretch hours. We landed at old fratmate Corky Joe’s house in the Garden District, and I started emptying the car. Speaking of empties… Joe started counting, and lord, we had done some damage. The overnight car ride ‘twixt Lunchbag, VA and the Crescent City: 14 hours, 19 beers between the three of us. That’s when the girls indicated they had only been drinking vodka. Jesus, Igor. Yep. Prudent. 

Clarence cracks wise and he don’t care
Igor stands with a fist in the air
I shake my head and lose more hair
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

9. 2002 Toyota Highlander, silver 

After a couple of years of me officially sans car and her with a little blue Civic, it was time to get back in the game. We had a little tike now, after all, and we found that two cars are better than one; two cars, girl, get the job done. So we cruised over to an Alexandria dealership and bought a new ’02 Highlander. What a great car. 22 years later, we just sold the Silver Bullet (my girls named her) for a few grand. 230,000 miles on her. Scant few signs of slippage. I’d buy one of these again, though I just chipped in for a pair of RAV-4’s for my girls. 

Ridiculous memory: I can’t think of a one. Doesn’t mean they don’t exist, but nothing Clarency/Igory jumps out at me like in other cars. This one was just the family truckster, with lots of good times carting the kids around -- and then bequeathing it to them to cart their butts to South Carolina semester after semester. Great stuff. 

10. Nissan Altima 2003, silver 

The Highlander quickly evolved into her car rather than mine, and the Civic wasn’t exactly… uh… well, “Fat Guy in a Little Car” played every time I drove it. So in 2005 I swapped it out with old fratguy El Reynoldo. Picked up the ’03 Altima, my all-time least favorite of these cars. Had it for about 6 years, and ran it into the ground. Somewhat literally. 

Ridiculous memory (2011): So here’s what happened. I had taken to calling this car the Silver Lining (“at least it still runs”) when that became jinxy. In 2009, it landed in the shop at a dealership (big mistake) because of chronically losing oil, and they informed me that it was a blown head gasket and that the damage was so bad the engine needed replacing. $5k worth of work on a car not much more valuable. They pointed me to their showroom. 

I decided to get a second opinion. That guy (at a shop in West Ghent near the Speedway!) trod lightly when he said this, but he indicated that it had taken his guy 25 minutes to remove spark plugs to look at the situation, and the chances that this action had also taken place 2 days prior… not bloody likely. Crooks! Anyway, he recommended that I just fill it up with oil frequently and ride it until it dies. (Not environmentally sound, I know.) According to the scumbags at the dealership, it would be days or weeks before it keeled over. It turned out to be 22 months. My female lead at the time was driving it for a spell, never put oil in, and it died as she was driving on the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel. Eh. 

11. 2007 Acura TL, navy blue 

Probably my favorite car. Got it at auction from a friend in the biz after Silver Lining died in 2011. Sporty little number with a cool stereo and killer leather inside. I’d definitely be convinced to get another like it. Alas, poor Bluebelle. 

The first crappy thing that happened: apparently on the key fob if you pushed a bunch of buttons, all of the windows and the sunroof would open. Security measure of some kind. Well, I used to keep my keys in a basket of stuff, and people would throw keys, phones, other crap into it. Somehow, late one night, two damnable things happened. All of the windows and the sunroof opened. And it poured rain for hours and hours. My cupholder was full the next morning. Aargh. Damp-Rid and all that jazz, but she was never the same inside. Brittle leather being torn apart. Boo. 

The second crappy thing that happened was that the transmission died. I got her up and running again to a pretty penny, but she was really never the same. I eventually sold her to a good dude making a fresh start for $300. Boo. Hoo. Poor Bluebelle. 

Ridiculous memory (2017): Oh, Igor, you monster. Igor was driving Bluebelle through the streets of my neighborhood one night, head and shoulders out the sunroof. Basically standing erect while pumping the gas too much to the tune of The Clash, “Straight to Hell.” Very late, very bourboned. Oh, self-destructive idiot Igor. He hit a few curbs, natch, but other than that, dodged one. This activity happened more than once, I found out later. 

Clarence ticks friends and family off
Igor turns his head and starts to cough
I line up another quaff
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

12. 2011 Lexus RX350, gold 

After the sad, rapid demise of Bluebelle, I was hanging onto her for dear life when fate intervened. My grandmother passed in July 2017, and some months later, my mom and (awesome) stepdad Ted (who passed last week, dammit, F cancer) approached me. Grammie had left me some money, but in lieu of that, they were willing to give me one of their cars (they were moving to Sarasota and downsizing) and keep the cash. I’ll never know if Mom hoodwinked me; I kind of prefer to think she did. Anyway, thus ushered in the era of Goldie, who has been running for seven years. Goldie’s been banged up along the way, and she’s due for some collision work next week, but she’s hanging in there with about 140k miles under her (timing) belt. 

Ridiculous memory (2022): Despite being known for Igor and his woman frequently driving through the darkened streets of Norfolk with windows submerged and “More Human Than Human” blaring at unreasonable decibels, nothing too crazy. 

Dumb, though… Wintergreen, summer time, Winery tour. En route from the mountain to the vineyards, Clarence is backing out of the condo driveway whilst in a highly heated debate over something pointless, and I miss the good-sized tree in my rear view. Whoops. Bumper dinged, really messed up and dented the rear right panel. I had just taken her in months earlier for some front right work after Clarence tagged a Mercedes in the office parking lot (homeboy is aging into my grand-dad super quick-like), so pride/embarrassment and wallet woes meant I would hold off fixing her for a spell. A spell, meaning like 2 years. Poor denty Goldie. 

But then… out of nowhere… my fiancée, 28 hours from “I do” two weeks ago, gets rear-ended in the bad way in Ghent. Same exact spot. Other dude’s fault. Glory be! (Of course, it’s far more critical that the missus was okay in the crash, but she is, and this is a sweet little add-on.) Goldie’s front got dinged as well, so she’s in bad shape right now. She goes in for the operation(s) on Tuesday. Wish her well and that they don’t give her the “totaled” prognosis! 

*  *  *  *  *  *

Well, there you have it. 12 cars good, bad, and ugly. Made better, worse, and uglier by Clarence, Igor, and me. Upon reflection, it's a bit of a miracle that I made it out of my youth (and youthful regressions) alive and not in jail. Seems like there's a song in all of this.  Oh, wait...

So, gheorghies, share your own car stories of yesteryear... if you dare.

Oh, Clarence, Igor and me
Why oh why must it always be
And you may say how come
I spend my nights with tweedledee and tweedledum
And yet I wonder why
Does it feel like me, myself, and I