A Not Quite Requiem for Big Red

Some of us think of the automobile as a means of transportation and nothing more.   Others, like me, see the car as something else entirely—an extension of ourselves, and an expression of identity.  Growing up I was influenced by my dear old Dad—our childhood was marked by a succession of American made muscle cars from the 1966 Ford Thunderbird convertible which met its sad end on the 610 freeway in the rain, to the Pontiac Firebird Formula 400 I drove out to Big Bend National Park, reaching its top speed of 160mph on a lonely stretch of interstate 10 before my new husband cried “Uncle!”  The first car I ever bought myself was a 1975 Chevy Camaro, V8 engine, bright red with white vinyl upholstery.  I was 21, and I was GOING PLACES.  I enjoyed that car for seven years until one too many spin-outs on Route 9 in the snow after I moved to Boston convinced me that it was time for something more practical.  The day I drove my brand new front wheel drive bronze Nissan Stanza out of the lot was the day I knew I had made a big mistake.  I was born for red cars with big engines.  I like people to see me coming.

Sometimes, however, we have to be practical.  By 1991 I had three children and a growing menagerie of pets.  I got my first Chevy Suburban, known then and probably now as the “National Car of Texas” on a company lease, and from then on I was hooked.  That car was indeed “like a rock.”  I drove it until the lease was up and then got another, this time the heavy duty three quarter ton with enough power to tow my house.  The menagerie had grown to include horses by then, and I wanted a car that I could both  live in and drive with three kids, 2 horses and an assortment of dogs.  There was nothing comparable to the trusty Suburban in the automotive world. A bemused trucker watched me struggle into a parking space at a truck stop and actually taught me how to park my behemoth.  By 2001 I realized that the horses were safer with professional drivers and big rigs, and I “traded down” to my current Suburban, affectionately known as “Big Red.”  That was in the spring of 2001, and I was in love—with a big red car.

I’ve had Big Red for nearly 14 years and 230,000 miles.  Shortly after the model year 2001, Chevrolet in its infinite wisdom decided to turn the historic first true sport utility vehicle into a soccer mom-grocery shopping car.  Gone was the bench middle seat, replaced by “captain’s chairs” for easier access to the third row.  Gone were the “barn doors” which opened from the middle out, one at a time, replaced by the hydraulically lifted single back window-door, which may have provided better grocery access, but was entirely impractical for those of us carrying three to four hundred pounds of dog, all wanting to exit the vehicle at the same time. Gone was the middle seat that folded entirely flat, allowing the entry of two 700 size dog crates, the only passenger vehicle to this day which had that much cargo space.  In my distress over the changes to my beloved Suburban, I spent an hour on the phone with a Chevy customer service representative from India, who duly noted my concerns, but had no idea what I was talking about.

Last week I covered a practice in El Centro, about 140 miles east of my home in Rancho Santa Fe.  I felt Big Red shudder and heave going over the Laguna Mountains.  For the first time ever, cars were passing me to the left as I struggled to maintain 55 mph. My good friends at Quality Chevrolet have been patching the air conditioning compressor together for years, but this was something entirely new.  Fearing the worst, I took the car back to the dealer today, with clear “Do Not Resuscitate” orders.  All day I waited, and finally around 4 pm I got a call from service.  Bill said, “Ma’am, I think your engine and transmission are okay.  We found a faulty oxygen sensor. We’ll replace it tomorrow.  You’ll be good to go.”

Good to go to New Mexico?  I sure hope so.  I don’t want a new car.  I love Big Red.  I am loyal and I persevere. The Chevy Suburban no longer comes in red.  My family thinks I’m nuts.