I Am My Ride began in a Memoir Class and tells about some of the cars I've loved and identified with during my life. My love of cars began as a teen when my siblings, friends and I went to the local racetrack on Saturday nights. I named most of my cars and they became a big part of my life.  When I look back over my car ownership history for this story I began to see a connection between my rides and what was happening in my life at the time. 


I Am My Ride 

In 1971 I was fifteen and Mom let me drive her four-door 1965 Chevelle over the narrow country roads of Pender Island. Why she did it, I can’t be totally sure but I can make a guess. In my teens, I was only happy when I got my own way. Consequently, we battled a lot. It was during one of our rare cease-fires that I discovered a love for cars and how special I felt driving one.

I got my license at sixteen and I continued to drive the family car to school and to work at the local swimming pool. Most of each paycheque was saved for a car of my own. I hated having to ask to borrow Mom’s car. Asking usually involved an interrogation followed by a continuation of the tug-a-war over who was the boss of me. Eventually, I found a car I could afford: a 1962 Triumph Herald, a small four-speed cousin of the sportscar. Herald was a lovely rich burgundy color, and we became inseparable. I don’t think my parents had any idea of just how far we went or how many beers I could drink, but I’d gotten what I’d wanted—freedom. 

After outgrowing Herald, I bought a 1972 Gremlin X, a mellow yellow six-cylinder with black racing stripes. I bought chromies to muscle it up—chrome rims were much cheaper than mags. Bob Seger demanded that I play the eight-track player loud—I didn’t argue. I believed that driving sweet wheels made me sweet too. 

Next, I fell in love with a 1970 Dodge Dart Swinger, pumpkin orange. This amazing ride blinded me to the faults of the cute guy driving. We married and had two sons. It wasn’t until after the car was long gone that I realized my husband had flaws, serious ones. I left the marriage seven years later in a 1974 Volvo sedan, a total grocery getter. It was a sturdy old luxury boat that listed sideways in a strong wind. The Volvo reflected the precise image of me, a twenty-seven-year-old has-been with her tail between her legs. 

With the passage of time and a new boyfriend, Jac, a fellow car nut who helped me deal on the car of my dreams: a black 1966 Acadian Canso, six-cylinder, two-door hardtop. The only drawback was the two-speed power glide automatic. I was a gear-jammer at heart, but the car was too beautiful to pass up. I waited outside while Jac miraculously dickered the owner down to an affordable price.

I still needed to sell my Volvo and surprisingly a guy showed up who had love hearts in his eyes. Who knew there were Volvo lovers out there? He couldn’t get his money out fast enough. The sale paid for my dreamy Canso, which transformed a downtrodden single mother into a confident chick joy-riding with a couple of chicklets. 

The Canso, the kids, and I cruised about a million miles together, windows down—hard topping. Gone was the has-been, and in her place was a working mom who could still afford socks and underwear after a fill-up. The Canso repaired my image, I was again in the driver’s seat of a sweet car. It didn’t matter that there were two baby seats in the back. I spent many predawn hours in the gravel driveway happily buffing her sleek black coat to a shine. 

The Canso sadly rusted away from years on salted roads. Jac and I were married now, and together we found a beautiful deep blue 1967 Chevy II, which needed an engine and interior. It was important that like my others, this ride would be a reflection of me. But how would that happen when it was purchased with married money? And if Jac rebuilt the 327 Corvette engine, I would reupholster the interior myself but that wouldn’t be enough to put my stamp on it. 

I could tell Jac understood when he said: “You could also rebuild the engine.” 

I laughed. 

“I’ll teach you,” and he did. Step by step he explained what to do, then left me to it. 

I learned a lot: like how important it was to tie back my long hair before rolling myself under the car on the creeper. Another time, I truly saw stars when the trunk lid came down on my head, but otherwise, I surfaced unscathed and triumphant. To my amazement, the engine started up and ran with a sexy heartbeat. When I stepped on it, she gobbled the high-octane fuel and roared. Heads turned. I felt pride in the beautiful muscle car—and myself. 

After 30 years of cherishing the Chevy II, it didn’t feel like me anymore. My desire to drive fast and jam gears wasn’t gone, but being kinder to the environment was more important to me. Jac and I installed solar panels on our roof and were planning an electric car for the future. 

Without overthinking it I said, “Hon? I’d like to sell the Chevy II and buy an electric car now. I don’t want to wait. Something cute, bright, and fun.” 

Whenever I talked about selling the Chevy II before, Jac always said he would buy it, which had never made any sense. But this time there was silence—then he said, “That sounds like a great idea.” 

I love Ella, my Electric Orange Pearl Fiat 500E. The E stands for completely electric, so no fossil fuel or emissions. She is so cute she makes everyone smile, and she’s fast—I can still put on a good show at the line. Ella is powered by the sun—our solar panels. I have no doubt that Mother Nature is smiling. 

Over the years I have owned many great rides that reflected who I was at the time. I have no regrets in trading the Chevy II for Ella. She is who I am now.