Commenter “Baklava” started a fascinating conversation yesterday that was (among other things) about women and car breakdowns:
I’ve heard this from many women friends. They simply aren’t interested in entertaining the idea of getting a car that is older to begin with. [My girlfriend] thought she was buying a rock solid machine. She had no idea what Consumer Reports said.
Think about it guys. When you go through life as an attractive woman (put yourself in their shoes) what do you think they have to go through if they were stuck on the side of the road. It’s a situation that isn’t pretty.
Which reminds me of a time long ago (late 70s). I was driving my very old Plymouth (and just to show you how traumatic the experience was, I’ve forgotten the name of the model) along a country road in rural New England. At night.
A very dark night at that, because in the country there are no street lights. It was about nine-thirty in the evening on a Sunday in summer, which meant it had only just gotten dark and so it really didn’t seem all that late.
I was returning from a pleasant visit to a friend who lived about two hours from me. I had my ten-month-old son in his infant seat in the back of the car, but since he was never much of a sleeper he was wide awake.
All was fine until I noticed that the dashboard lights were a little less bright than usual. Or were they? Was it my overactive imagination? I began to feel just a bit jittery.
I knew this road quite well, having traveled it a host of times. There were gas stations seeded here and there, but as I passed the first one I realized that at this time on a Sunday night they were unlikely to be open. Ditto for the very few restaurants and stores.
Things weren’t too bad—yet. I could see clearly enough, and the car was driving fine. But a short while later it became impossible to deny that my all the lights on the car were fading fast, and the power was dropping as well.
The road was single-lane, with no breakdown lane and no shoulder. I couldn’t even see how much grass was on the side of the road before the trees began. If wasn’t winter, but it was chilly, and since I’d only planned to be gone for the day I didn’t have the proper jackets for me or the baby. I was only about forty-five minutes from home, but cell phones didn’t exist, nor did pay phones on this particular road.
There were not many cars either, although I was ecstatic every time one began to approach me from behind. Their headlights provided light for a while, and I had hopes that they would notice that my car not only had no lights but was now going about twenty miles an hour instead of the usual fifty-five. Maybe they would help me, somehow.
But what few cars I encountered sped by with hardly a backwards glance. I didn’t want to pull over to the side of the road; there was no side of the road and I was afraid a car might hit us. Plus, I knew if I stopped the car it probably would not start again, and I’d be stranded with the (now mercifully sleeping) baby in the cold.
Now that I think of it in the calm light of day (and subsequent decades), I realize I could/should at least have pulled into a business parking lot off the road—one of the restaurants or perhaps the gas stations. That way, I’d at least have a choice as to where I stopped rather than letting fate decide—or worse, having an accident.
But looking back, I know I preferred to hope that the power would hold out until I reached a place with people who could help me. I would have felt especially vulnerable sitting in the car in a small parking lot (on that road, they were all small) with a spotlight shining on me, although in retrospect I know I was more vulnerable driving in the dark. But in the latter case I was doing something rather than waiting, which somehow felt better.
And so I drove on. I remember my foot shaking as it pressed on the accelerator, and my teeth actually chattered with fear. I kept going over my alternatives. Was it more dangerous to keep driving, or more dangerous to stop? There was a little bit of moonlight to give me a vague idea of the outlines of the road, but my own lights were completely gone. I knew I’d run out of power soon, although I still had plenty of gas.
And then, and then—just when I thought I’d have no choice but to stop and take my chances—a light! It was a motel, and to this day I cannot pass that place without feeling a rush of gratitude. I stopped there and felt the car heave, almost with a sigh of sympathetic relief.
The rest was relatively easy. The door was open, the proprietors responded to the little bell I rang, and they graciously let me use their phone to call my husband and sit in their office until he came to rescue us. The car (which, just as I had expected, refused to start again) was left in the parking lot and picked up later; as you automotive people no doubt already know (but the details of which I’ve since forgotten), the problem was some sort of electrical belt gone bad.
Later I went back and clocked how far I’d actually driven from the time my lights began to fail until the blessed motel: it was “only” ten miles, one of the longest ten miles of my life.
Many years later, when I got a cell phone, one of my first thoughts was of that night, and the knowledge that with a functioning cell phone the whole thing would have been a mere inconvenience rather than a traumatic experience. I never drive without one now—although I do continue to drive old cars. No more old Plymouths, though, even if they’re given to me for free, as that one was; it’s a 1997 Corolla at the moment.
[ADDENDUM: I fear I’ve grievously libeled Chrysler, which certainly doesn’t need the aggravation. It came to me today while I was driving that the car that broke down that epic night long ago was no Plymouth. It was actually made by GM, one of these suckers.]
