In order to safeguard our precious, frail, tax-paying bodies the US Federal government made air bags standard equipment in the steering wheels of 1991 cars. I am certain that having a pound of hypertoxic destabilized sodium azide and a blasting squib six inches from my chest to explosively inflate the airbag in case of an accident is in my best interest. After all, every racing car driver has airbags, right? Riiiight! At least air conditioning would keep the stuff cool. At least it would if John Vasconcellos (D-Santa Clara) had not introduced legislation in Sacramento to ban all new automobile air conditioners starting in 1991 to save the ozone layer. (He made the announcement "from his air conditioned office," Los Angeles Times 18 July 1989, p.3). It was the end of 1989. My 12 year-old Rabbit was about to become automotive hasenpfeffer while I could still buy a car that would not have a steering wheel made to explode in my lawfully sanctioned sweating face.
Twelve years is a long time to have had a single car. I think back with frank nostalgia to the fourteen times I washed and waxed it. I remember the day the fan belt broke, setting me back about $75 on a hot Tustin morning. I remember the day rust from the gas tank blew past the gasoline filter and took out the fuel distributor and all four fuel injectors, putting about $360 into general circulation. I remember the alternator dying, putting a gradual end to speculation about whether it was the idiot light or the engine part that had died, which also took out the battery and about $200 from my wallet. I remember the starter not starting when the mornings were cold or the engine was hot, eventually reaching full stride and not starting at all until it ate about $150. I remember the grommet that was accidentally omitted from where the antenna cable went through the left front wheel well, shorting out the entire fusebox during a torrential downpour on the freeway. (That was free to fix. It was either that or the folks at Volks would be paying war reparations.) I remember the master cylinder going from dominant to submissive on a steeply banked freeway exit, the water pump blowing out, a loose screw in the steering wheel shorting the horn, and the sealed bearings in the front end not only excluding dirt, but also the grease necessary to keep them properly lubricated. I think back over those precious twelve years of loyal service and what comes to my mind when I envision my car with the awful orange color that would not fade, dull or discolor, is "&^$@!&^%$#)(*&^%@!!!" Most Detroit cars would have all that stuff happen the first week after warranty expiration and you could firebomb the thing with a clear conscience and get the insurance money to buy another three year ride.
I will concede that the Rabbit survived with only a busted tail light a rear impact at a stoplight that left the jerk who smashed into me at the end of 73 feet of black skidmarks (green means go, amber means go fast, red means go faster). And as they say, even after twelve years, 120,000 miles, and six kinetic body resculptings (four of them while parked), I STILL had to open a window to get the last door closed. It really was too bad that Senator Ted Kennedy was not driving a Volkswagen when the (preggers) blonde went into the pond.
So, what kind of car did I purchase?
We immediately exclude all English, Italian, and American entries. Much as I admire fine body workmanship and the assiduous absence of any engineering or design quality in the power train, the thought of buying a car made by people who think work is the brief interval between vacation and sick leave is unexciting at best. The Swedes have forged a national identity based upon socialism, mediocrity, and 90% tax brackets to pay for it all. I would always wonder whether my Saab was built by competent people were pissed off, or brainburn cases who enjoyed it. Would you do 85 mph on the freeway in a car made in Korea?
Well then, what about Germany? The VW Rabbit, er, Golf, was an evolved Nazi wunderkind and beneficiary of the wisdom and cost-cutting expertise of hordes of MBA's. It achieved the status of an American car: Expensive and inferior. Porsche is interesting, although the wisdom of putting me in a vehicle with more than 40 horsepower is questionable. I once got 15 mph knocked off a traffic ticket by convincing the nice CHP officer that a Rabbit doing 90 mph would be instantly transformed into loose parts, and surely no judge would believe otherwise, right? Always use Mobil 1 in your crankcase.
I suppose I might have gone with the Japanese. It was a choice of beer cans in the doorframe, linguine in the wheel wells, lutafisk in the trunk, or dried sushi in the ventilator grill. I just hope the guys were not into squid.
Nah - back to the Nazis. I've still got some spare parts for the Rabbit.
The cumulative 20-year beyond preventative maintenance repair list for a 1989 VW Golf: battery, radiator, muffler.