I climbed into Batty — my small-sized black hybrid — this morning, about 180 miles from home. Kiki tried to climb over the notch between the front seats to help out with the driving and got chased into her hammock bed in the back. Bea settled into the passenger side and buckled her seat belt. She really dislikes the dingy-dingy sound that Batty makes if she’s a little slow with the operation.
The car starts if I’m anywhere near it and anyone pushes the start button. Which I did; but as I did, I experienced an old, familiar flash of anxiety. “Old” as originating in the 1950s, when I began driving my own cars, most of them incipient wrecks that managed somehow to pass inspections, but thereafter kept me on edge concerning everything that might happen (or not) between the two turnings of the keys.
Foremost, of course, was the question of starting. Would it? These were the days of the six-volt electrical systems, which were adequate in temperate weather, but in the coldest weather (which has pretty much disappeared in recent years) often produced only an awful series of clicks or a deep groaning that portended the imminent death of your chances of going anywhere. In sub-arctic Canada a few years ago, I noticed that all the cars had long orange extension cords wrapped around the left-hand rear-view mirror; in our day in the Adirondacks, each of us carried a pair of jumper cables. On the evenings promising the coldest nights — say, 20 to 30 below zero — many of us carried our car batteries indoors to stay warm by the space heater. The first year I did that, I noticed that the front of my jeans was rotted away by springtime. I finally figured out it was acid from the battery bumping against them as I carried it. On the coldest mornings I lit my two-burner Coleman stove and shoved it under the crankcase for a few minutes before trying to start whatever I hoped to be driving.
Those sorts of temperatures are nowadays, but memories, and vehicles nowadays are readier for the challenge. Batty starts right up as soon as I touch the button. At least I think he does. It’s often hard to tell with a hybrid. The electric motor is pretty quiet and lacks that reassuring rumble that his elderly German sister, Helga, emits at the start of every drive. The dashboard lights up, which is reassuring. But most important of all, it starts with no apparent effort, winter or summer.
After Batty’s instantaneous response this morning, I sat there for a moment, surprised at that old ingrained flash of anxiety over whether he would. The screen in the middle of the dashboard lit up automatically, displaying the route home and an estimated time of arrival, should I choose at that moment to head that way. It had rained during the night. I switched on the wipers. They worked, soundlessly. I twisted the switch, and the rear window wiper started, too. What luxury! We backed up (rear view camera, with projected course outlined), made a U-turn, and headed for breakfast.
Years ago in Denver I bought a well-used 1946 Plymouth sedan for 125 (silver) dollars. It burned about as much oil as gas, so in a Texas parking lot my friend Sam and I pulled the pan and replaced the piston rings. After that she gave me a year and a half of very hard service until she threw a rod one Thanksgiving weekend far from home. I spent almost as much time under her hood as in the driver’s seat. It was her quirks and little refusals that instilled the anxieties I still feel when I push buttons or turn switches in the electronic marvel sitting out bank. But I’ll never forget Sam’s comment one day as we diddled with the disintegrating carbon core of the distributor: “Think of all the years of experimentation and invention, and all the hundreds of parts you got for only $125.”
After a leisurely breakfast at a favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Swampscott, we bade Bea goodbye and pushed the spot for home on the Bluetoothed GPS system, and Siri started right in, talking through my Bluetooth hearing aids to guide me through north-of-Boston traffic and out onto I-93 north. I don’t need the directions anymore, unless I get lost, but it’s kind of pleasant to watch the little blue arrow of my car inching across the screen, to get information about my time of arrival, and to be informed about distractions ahead (construction, accidents, cops, etc.). Now and then a sales call comes in on the phone, providing entertainment and an opportunity to practice my grumpy German accent. It’s so wonderful to tool along at a radar-controlled speed without listening for any sounds that might mean trouble. Always when we pull into the garage, I sit for a moment and, out loud, say thank you.
