As a third-generation Motor City gal, I can’t help but love cars. After all, the automotive industry is literally what keeps that city moving (or sends it screeching to a halt). But I never really loved my own cars. They were just the things that got me from Point A to Point B (when they weren’t busy breaking down by the side of the road).
Until this beautiful little girl entered my life:
That, my friends, is the Bluebird—a Honda del sol. She was fast (I routinely broke 100 mph, no sweat), sexy, and best of all…
The Bluebird was the first car I ever bought myself. I had my first full-time job at a publishing house down in the city, and the ’83 Thunderbird I was driving just wasn’t cutting it. So I asked my Dad to help me find a new one.
I was pretty sure he’d locate a bunch of safe, snore-worthy sedans.
So when we pulled up to the seller’s house and he pointed her out to me, my jaw hit the floor. A sports car? For me? No frigging way.
But he was serious, and before I knew it, I was in the driver’s seat, putting her through her paces. By the time I got to third gear, I was head over heels in love. I bought that car just as fast as my bank would let me and never looked back.
We had many an adventure, the Bluebird and I.
We risked death on a daily basis, weaving in and out through the rage-fueled rush hour traffic that clogs Detroit’s highways.
We plowed through snowdrifts, fighting our way through blizzards that stranded all but the toughest vehicles.
We raced thunder storms, speeding ahead of the raindrops that threatened to ruin our topless fun.
But best of all were the laid-back days when the sun shone brightly down and the wind whipped through my hair, my joyous laughs mixing with the happy purr of her engine.
She saw me get married.
Watched as I moved into my first home.
She put up with 2 by 4s being threaded through her back window and flats of flowers getting piled six deep in the passenger seat.
She was a trooper.
But eventually it was time to say good bye. It was the age of Monster SUVS and 50-mile commutes. I no longer felt safe in her diminutive interior—and she was getting old. After one too many ridiculously expensive repair bills, I put her up for sale.
A buyer was quickly found (old or not, she was still sexy, yo).
But before I gave her up, I insisted on taking one last drive. We wandered aimlessly through the streets of my hometown, alternately speeding down expressways and moseying over country roads. And all the while, I cried. Oh, how I cried.
The Bluebird, she was the automotive love of my life. And on days like this? When the sun beats down and summer beckons?
I still miss her terribly.
Now, go visit our hostess: