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J.C. Milliman
Fighting the new car urge

    People usually laugh when they see my car for the first time. Especially those who think BMW's are svelt, sleek UberCars for the genteel (and well heeled) among us. They laugh because it's painted John Deere Yellow from a spray can.

    Go ahead and laugh, I say! It’s paid for. Not only have I made the conscious decision to drive this car, I actually LIKE IT!

    Not too long ago, though, I had a run in with that dreaded foe, the New Car Urge. A wily one, he...

    When that urge comes, it doesn’t so much gradually work its way in quietly so as to slip by your reason without waking it. Nor does it make an ally of your common sense, either. Oh no, there’s much too much at stake here to allow for the possibility of failure, and even the great Clausewitz and Sun Tsu cautioned against attacking an enemy’s strong points.

    New car urges flank your common sense and your reason in daring sneak attacks meant to overwhelm your defenses. It’s over and you’re faced with "war reparations" (i.e., car payments) before you even know what’s going on. About all you can do is whip out your "Hoover Flag" (Anyone old enough to know what that is??) in surrender because that’s all you’ll have left.

    Priced a new car lately?

    But even before the sneak attack comes, the new car urge allies with a couple of important forces -- emotion and hormones.

    We’ll skip hormones -- if you know the vehicles I drive, you’ll know hormones have long since ceased to be a factor for me. At slightly past the mid-point of my estimated life expectancy, my "Mid-Life Crisis" is ever-so anti-climatic according to my wife (I bought a dump truck ... but that’s another story).

    Sure, some guys buy Italian super cars, dress in leather and find buxom 19-year olds for company. Me? I buy a dump truck.

    Maybe I’m missing something here... No matter. Back to the new car.

    The truly insidious part of the whole thing is that I don’t really need a new car. My current daily driver is chronologically challenged (a nicer term than the equally euphemistic "Historic"), yes, but it works reasonably well.

    As long as getting from A to B is all I want out of it -- no frills, just fairly reliable transportation.

    And when I say frills, I mean the radio, heater, wipers -- sissy stuff.

    During the last big downpour we had, I found myself zipping home down/up/whatever Rt. 235 in the rain and in the dark, wondering if my 34-year old German car’s turn signals and brake lights were working.

    Those nutty krauts -- they don’t want you driving the car forever. The end of life phase must be programmed in, ja? And when the clock trips 30 years or 400,000 miles, it’s auf wiedersehn baby! The car checks out and, unfortunately if you’re driving it at the time, so might you.

    So, white knuckles and all, freezing (did I mention the heater valve is stuck in the middle, so it’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter -- how convenient) and wondering if I was even in the correct lane -- oh yeah, the wipers are just sort of there for looks -- the new car urge saw its opportunity. It swiftly allied itself with my negative emotions and whammo.

    I just happened to be in traffic next to the Chrysler dealer, too.

    My perimeter was breached; the Urge was upon me. It was hand-to-hand, dirty and to the death!

    And just when I thought maybe, just maybe, I was turning the attack, the Urge assembled all his forces on the battlefield, broke his colors and, with them flapping furiously in the wind, ordered an advance upon my position by his secret weapon-.

    My eye caught a glimpse of a maroon Chrysler 300M -- my new car weak spot -- the chink in my armor!

    Thankfully, the white flag that came next was just a parley, not my signal of surrender.

    "You have fought valiantly," the Urge offered graciously with a grand sweep of his cocked hat. "Would Monsieur care to discuss terms?"

    I tried to avoid making eye contact. And I thought about it.

    "Come now, Monsieur," Le Compt de Urge continued. "You have resisted honorably and well. But to keep up such a fight? It is futile. And for what? (A disgusted gesture towards the tired Bimmer) For this? Ptooie! Do not be a fool!"

    I knew what the terms of unconditional surrender would be, even for a warrantied "program car." Debt.

    "That is such an ugly word, Monsieur," the gallant Compte shot back. "Let us say instead, deferred fiscal responsibility."

    Ah yes, he made it so easy, too. All I had to do was turn my back, bow my head and I would soon be in the lap of luxury. Heated leather seats, intermittent wipers, a CD player, even! And all of it working, I might add. All I had to do was give in.

    Like a good horse keenly attuned to its rider, the car sensed something was afoot that could mean its demise.

    Turn my back on a good and faithful mount for no other reason than my own personal comfort? I recoiled in horror at my own crass commercialism. Could I really be contemplating assuming considerable debt merely to tickle my fancies and pamper my butt in heated leather?

    Sometimes, confronting one’s own self can be frightening -- frightening enough to steel you to do what needs to be done. I rallied and took the offensive.

    Cold, wet and tuneless as I was, at least the car has personality, I thought.

    Where is the farfegnugen in cars today? I’ve said this before, but the joy is gone from modern cars -- they are soul-less, personality-bereft and computer-controlled plastic bubblecars, hard even to tell apart one from the next. You turn the key and it starts. You push the button and it goes. There’s even a voice to tell you when to get gas.

    Cars today have all the personality of a set of Tupperware.

    My car, though... If you don’t know how to start it, you won’t. And you’d better be quick about it because with no parking brake, you’ll roll into the garage door if you keep your foot off the brake for too long. And the electrics -- well, you just have to figure out which combinations keep all the fuses from blowing.

    Character? I’d say the old Schnitzel Rocket has it in spades.

    Even if it has a hole in the floor the size of Montana and the rattlecan paint is cracked, Ole Yeller is just plain fun. Despite its Teutonic pedigree, it has a wonderful personality. People seem to like it.

    The Urge, though, didn’t surrender. It just retired from the field of battle to regroup and prepare for another day. I was lucky this time -- I don’t need a new car.

    I can remain smug while having fun in a performance beater because, while I suppose I could afford a new car, I choose not to submit to the Urge’s evil brother -- debt. While a lot of other people willfully jump into that river, I will not be assimilated!

    Like the sticker says, go ahead and yuk it up, thou holier-than-me consumers! It’s paid for. I drive a beater not because I HAVE to but because I CHOOSE to! HA! Except in the rain, that is. When it rains, I’ll just take my wife’s car.

    It may not be as fun, but the heater works.