The tale of a ghetto pimp ride. It was a part of me.

I am quite sure, if you have had possession of one, that you quite clearly remember your first car. It is a defining moment in your life, when you suddenly realize that you have the freedom to go where you wish. That you can stop bumming rides off of people, and instead give rides to others is a mind-stopping concept in it's mildest form. This feeling of freedom, and the respect of your peers, especially if you are 16, is astounding. Because of the emotional aspects, your first car is the one you bond with. It is the one that shares your wildest and most fondly remembered times. And perhaps the times you wish to forget the most. Just like that friend who has been there for years. As you can probably guess, a 1985 Buick Century 4-door was my first car. I still get a little misty when I think of her. (As to the gender reference, most guys think of their cars as female.) My car's name was Corina. Simply because I liked the name. (Once again, naming the car, I believe, is a guy thing.) Now to describe the wonder that was Corina a.k.a. The Tank.

It must have been June of '98. I had given my dad the money I had, and trusted him to get me a decent moving vehicle. I came home from school that day, and there is this beater sitting in my driveway. Madly faded gray paint, Buick sedan. Thinking "huh?" in my head, I walked into the house. My dad simply chucks the keys at me as soon as I cross the threshhold, and says "Have fun, it's yours." To say that I was overjoyed would be an understatement. All I could think was "I have a car. I have a car. I have a car..." I opened the front driver's door, and soaked in every detail. The interior was a badly worn grey cloth, and it had a crack running across the dashboard. But it smelled good. Overlooking all of the minor little problems with it, i sat down behind the wheel. I remember noting that the odometer had approximately 150,000 miles on it. She was by no means a spring chicken, but she was mine. That was all that mattered. She fired up with no hesitation, and ran beautifully. She wasn't very powerfull, but she had enough kick to leave behind the geriatric community in their Cadillacs that insist on doing 35 in a 45 even though their cars are capable of speeds over 120 mph. Nevermind that she could have been beaten by a Chevy Cavalier. It certainly didnt' matter to me. All I knew was that I was the only one of my friends with a car. A car that, as a matter of fact, I once fit 12 people in. And, I had seen worse looking cars to boot. Now, I will admit, I was very hard on her. As is the case with most 16-year-olds, my car incurred any number of injuries. She only gave me trouble on 4 occassions, and I fixed her on the spot with no trouble. She was repaired, under the hood, with duct tape, a wire coat hanger, a wire tie, and a sock. Yes, a sock. And she still ran strong.

By the time I got rid of her, she had only 1 hubcap, a crack running across the windshield, a shredded backseat, and all of the earlier aforementioned maladies. At this time, I had the opportunity to get a nicer car. Thinking with my head instead of my heart, I sold her. A decision which I still regret. She only cost maybe $150 in the year that I drove her. That was for 1 set of tires, and 1 set of brake pads. The only other expense was for gas. As far as would I recommend one to someone else? Yes, definitely. If only because of the fact that it will still keep running no matter what you throw at it. It's highly dependable, and at it's age, has a certain amount of ghetto charm. But I'm afraid I must end my tale, for I'm getting too emotional to continue. And so, my friends, I leave you with this parting thought....

The one true love of your life that won't hurt you is your car, so choose wisely.