It isn’t news that Los Angeles is car crazy. From old school surfer Woodys, to the Porsches that are so ubiquitous that they must be giving them
away, people care deeply about their cars out here.
I am not immune. I’ve always liked cars but I have a
practical side. I inherited my first car. It was my mom’s blue Chevy Bel-Air.
By the time I was done with it, the Saratoga road salt had rotted the
floorboards so thoroughly that when I drove through a puddle, things got wet.
My next car was a
super sexy, if mechanically questionable Triumph TR7 (“The shape of things to come.”). It was electric blue with racing stripes. It
currently resides in my brother’s garage in Connecticut, and would be a classic
if anyone could manage to get it to run.
Presently I am lucky enough to have two cars. One is useful,
a 12 year-old Chevy Tahoe that can transport all the dogs and pull the horse
trailer. The other is less so: it’s a 1996 two seat black BMW Z3 convertible.
There were practical reasons for buying the car. Or so I told myself. I had a job I despised, and
I knew if I had a car payment, I would never quit the job in a huff. It worked.
I kept the job until I found another job I hated, but at least it paid better.
I love my Z3. I Like
me, it’s old, needs some bodywork, and it's not fast, but with regular maintenance it keeps on
ticking.
The real reason I keep it around is that it makes
me feel fantastic. Zipping along with
the top down always puts a smile on my face. It may be a geezer, but it still looks
sharp which makes me look good.
At least most of the time.
Recently I was driving home from a shrink appointment (I
know it’s positively shocking that I’m in therapy, but it’s true.) It was just
before rush hour and I was flying down the 5 in a hurry to get back to work. If
all went well, I’d be in front of my computer in a half an hour.
Then the car started to shimmy. Badly. Followed by a regular
thunkity, thunkity, thunkity. That is never a good noise. For the first time
in Z3’s life, it had a flat tire.
With with the aid of some cursing and gesturing I maneuvered to the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t easy. LA drivers refuse
to yield. Even to drivers with obvious flat tires.
My tire didn’t just have a flat; it exploded. I stared
at the layers of tread for a moment and vaguely remembered my mechanic
mentioning that I should think about new tires.
Naturally that meant I immediately forgot about them as soon as I left his shop.
Oops.
I was stuck on the shoulder of the road, next to
the LA River. At that location, it actually looks sort of like a river. It has
vegetation and a fair amount of fauna. And trash. Lots, and lots of trash, I spotted several egrets and a Great
Blue Heron picking their way through the couches, shopping cars and other crap people tossed in their habitat.
Really people, stop using the river as a garbage dump! It’s
disgusting!
Thanks to the previously mentioned super unreliable Triumph,
I have belonged to AAA since I was in college. So while traffic flew dangerously
close to me on the shoulder of the road, I fished out my membership card and
called emergency roadside service.
The dispatcher assured me that someone was on the way to
change my tire. He’d be there within 30 minutes. There was even a nifty little
app that tracked his progress.
Out of boredom, I clicked on the app, and was outraged that
it claimed he’d already arrived. I was working my knickers into a righteous
knot, when I looked up from my phone and saw the tow truck.
He made short work of digging out my never-been-used spare
tire and swapped it for the damaged
one. Naturally, the ruined tire didn’t fit
in my trunk so he gently tucked it into the passenger seat.
He also warned me that my spare was not a real tire – it
would get me home, but cautioned me not go faster than 50 mph. I took a deep breath and pulled into rush
hour traffic.
The drivers behind me in the slow lane did not care that I
had my flashers on to warn them of my predicament. They wanted to get home, and
my 50 mph wasn’t cutting it. I was honked at, cursed at and on the receiving end
of crude hand gestures.
It was the first time in nearly 20 years that I drove Z3
with the top down and felt like a schlump. No one feels good about themselves
as they wobble home in an ancient convertible with a filthy flat tire in the
passenger seat. I gritted my teeth and
drove on.
It seemed like forever, but was probably only 45 minutes
before I pulled into the tire shop near my house. The owner informed me that I
should replace all the tires and my brakes were shot, and Z3 would be ready in
a few hours.
The day was just getting better and better.
I walked home feeling like a major loser. Because I was. Did
I mention that I was still in riding clothes? Cause I was. And it was really, really hot.
Two hours later Dalai the Dane and I walked back to the tire
shop to pick up the car. (I walk nowhere
without a dog; if I’m getting exercise, so are they.)
“She's getting in there?” The owner asked, looking at Dalai.
Suddenly we weren’t alone.
Everyone in the shop had gathered to watch the huge dog get in the teeny car.
I nodded, as she hopped in. It did take her a moment to
arrange her big butt onto the dainty seat, but Dalai managed. Z3 is not her favorite mode of
transportation, but she’s not an idiot. It’s better than walking when it's hot out.
We got a few laughs we drove home. People did point and
several drivers honked and gave us the thumbs up. I look at it this way: we
brought joy into people’s lives.
It was only a short
drive home, but my bad mood vanished. My ancient Z3 may not be a bright red Lamborghini,
but driving with the top down, and a giant dog riding shotgun, is still pretty darn cool.
