I have driven my 1979 Cadillac Coupe deVille daily since 1995. The car, now 33 years old, is showing signs of its age.
It was called "A personal luxury car" when it was issued in 1979.
That was the year grandma and Papa bought it. They put just 40,000 miles on it in their lifetime. My wife's mom bought it from their estate. She drove it to 70,000 miles and then sold it to us. It still ran like a new car. Smooth and powerful and luxurious in its appointments; plush, butter-yellow leather seats, everything electric and very roomy inside.
Now that I am thinking about selling the old girl, I find there are some parallels between its history and my own.
When that great car came off the assembly line, it was in perfect condition. It was tight and strong and the big motor hummed. It could climb long hills and barely breathed. It was fast when it needed to be and could cruise forever. Everything worked. When I was 18 (the same age the car was when I bought it) I was in great condition, strong and light on my feet and brimming with energy
When the car hit 75,000 miles, a mechanic told me it needed a tune-up. That same year, I needed one too. A heart doctor told me to lose weight. At 95,000 miles, the car needed new tires. I needed new shoes that same year. At 100,000, I had to put in a new tailpipe. That same year, I got a colonoscopy. When the odometer hit 110,000, the headliner detached from the ceiling of the car. That year, I noticed my hair was getting thin and detaching from my head.
At 120,000 miles, the car began to burn oil. I began to burn calories, but not as fast as I was consuming them. At 125,000 miles, the headlights oddly became cross-eyed. I started to become cross-eyed too and had to get new glasses.
The 130,000 miles mark was when the passenger side rear wheel got bent when I drove over a curbing. That same year, I got a painful heel injury running down an icy mountain trail, digging in my heels as I descended.
When the car hit 135,000 miles, a couple of rust spots appeared on the quarter panel behind the driver's door. A couple of liver spots appeared on the back of my left hand that same year.
At 140,000 miles, a rock chipped the windshield. I broke a tooth on some pudding about that time. True story.
When 145,000 miles rolled around, the left taillight blinker stopped working. A little spring inside kept the bulb from making contact with the socket. A mechanic could not figure out how to fix it. I finally did it myself with a pair of pliers. And that was about the same time I had knee surgery to remove a bone spur. A doctor did that work.
The 150,000 mile was the year of the flat tire. It was also the year of the swollen bursa in my right elbow. I was able to get the tire repaired and the bursa excised but not by the same people. In retrospect, Les Schwab probably could have done the elbow surgery, too. And for a lot less money.
Now the once glamorous vehicle of choice of movie stars and potentates sits sullenly in the garage. Now and then, a drop of oil leaks from the pan onto the accumulated drips of days gone by collected in kitty litter in a low black mound. She was a great ride for many years. Even now, the eight-track stereo, an invention of the same guy who invented the Lear Jet, works. A Lawrence Welk tape is wedged in its mouth.
Some lucky guy will get this fine automobile and learn to love it as I have. As for my own body, I plan to go on as long as replacement parts are still available.
