O-D on 200,000

I'd consider a new car if there were any I actually wanted.

by Bruce Schimmel

Congratulate me, for I have lavished care on my car, and it has repaid me in kind; pity me, for I am sick of auto-love. If you own and drive a car, and think about all that really means, you know how it is to be addicted to dirty mobility, and to be unhappy with yourself about it.

That said, I have to admit I was psyched as the odometer flipped over in my circa-1995 Mazda MX-6. My car is a creature of the Late Analog Age, so it was a kick to see the "199999" — an actual set of painted-on physical digits — slip around the corner and re-emerge in a new millennium.

At 200,000 miles, my Mazda could have gone around the world eight times, which is but a walk in the park compared to the rigors of parking in Philly. My car, pocked with scars, is a symbol of a city survivor. Its glossy coat of British racing green is now hidden under a web of scratches; its dented sides look like the work of elephants.

The black, faux-leather "bra" that hangs off its nose looks nasty by design, because driving this car says you've nothing to lose. "Hit me, I dare you," it declares, which tends to clear the road of more fastidious drivers.

I may be driving a survivor, but of auto-abuse I plead innocent. After 40 years of driving, with an unblemished record in this vehicle, I have become again a virgin: often hit upon, never hitting. Merely being parked on the street, dings appear.

Still, its body is good and its innards are passable, for I am curious strange about maintenance. As an airplane pilot, I try to avoid breakdowns en route. And I also like mechanics — real mechanics who actually fix things, who have sharp eyes and can see a crack before it happens. (All praise to Schafers on Columbus Boulevard.)

Still, at 200,000 miles, with a low, groaning throb that stammers in the cold, and the occasional blizzard inside the cabin, I know that my days with this car are limited. Even an oracle can't forestall the inevitable.

I'd consider getting a new car, if I knew that parts from my old one could be reused. But car companies, being what they are — and consumers essentially helpless — all my old car can expect is a quick crunch in a metal fist. And, if very lucky, a long, dirty road to another incarnation as, say, a dishwasher.

I'd consider getting another car, also, if there were a car, any car, that I actually wanted. But with the Toyota Prius sidelined, the Honda Insight a pale imitator, and with Ford's Focus and Chevy's Volt mere gleams in marketers' eyes, there's little rolling out there that interests me.

Besides, cash for clunkers notwithstanding, trading in might not add up environmentally. To go from my current 25 mpg, to 35 or even 40 mpg, comes at the great waste of my current car — which leads some to say that it's easier on both the planet and your wallet to nurse a wreck. If you must drive at all.

Well, that's not what the smiling, sleek sales assistants at the recent Philly auto show wanted to hear — not from me, nor other curious buyers. Like cattle, we wandered around the shiny models — confused, bored and certainly disappointed. Because buying a new car today is like trading an old addiction for a new one — when what you really want is to simply walk away.

(bruce@schimmel.com)