IF A man compares cars to women, and some do, he will
note that there is something to love in each of them.

My loves have included cars
that were true, honest and decent
creatures like Voivos and carly
Datsun 510s. J also had an affair
with a sleek, sultry Jaguar. She
was expensive to keep but the very
sight of her steamed men’s
glasses.

The Austins, frightfully British,
were frigid. You could get a chill
in an Austin even in warm
weather.

An exception was a convertible
coupe called the Austin Atlantic.
Atlantics were jolly creatures who
enjoyed a romp. I once cohabited

with three of them simultaneously.

But for every man there is a
first time. She is unforgettable
and, because first, in a way un-
matchable.

TL lost my virginity to a 1926
Model T Ford which had been sit-
ting on blocks in a garage fora
few years.

It is not true that Henry Ford
said people would have a Model T
any color they liked as long as it
was black. This one was olive
green, in a bilious way. (On the
other hand, it is true that when
Henry was asked why his cars cost
$100 more in Canada than in the
U.S., $400 instead of $300, he an-
swered ‘‘Because the Canadians
will pay it.’’)

My second hand Model T cost
me $15. There being no time
payment plans then, I saved up
the money from my Toronto
Weekly Star paper route.

I had not learned to drive at
this time and had no licence to

try. But in the "30s governments
took little interest in such matters.
Law was not supposed to concern
itself with trivialities, as it now
does.

A friend and I pushed the T out
of the barn and onto a country
road where [| cranked it to life
without breaking a wrist. I raced
around to the driver’s seat and
leapt in behind the wheel before
she left without me. She might as
well have, as we went right into a
ditch anyway.

We pushed her out and hit a
fence on the other side of the
road. No damage was done.
Model Ts did not bruise easily.

After a while, she didn’t ramble
off into the rhubarb any more and
was content to stay more or less
centred, even on corners.

My adrenalin level went down. I
unpeeled one sticky hand from the
steering wheel and dangled it out
the window, as I had seen men of
the world doing.

After learning one-handed steer-
ing, 1 graduated to working the
windshield swipe, which was
hand-operated, and doing sudden
stops which was accomplished by
jamming her into reverse gear.

| WESTPRESS

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PAULITICS & PERSPECTIVES

{ became indifferent to barking
dogs, which outran us on short
distances, and it seemed no time
at all until I was as good a driver
as | was to get to be for a year or
so.

Friday, August 10, 1990 - North Shore News ~ 9

izzy and the loss of virginity

In memory, I compare that first
day of driving with my first bed-
ding of a girl, an event that oc-
curred in the sand dunes not far
from that very road. I think J was
more at case with the car. f
fumbled, but not as much.

Her charms — no, silly, the
car’s, not the girl’s — abide with
me to this day. So do her faults.
And sometimes it’s hard to tell
which was which.

The gearshift was called
planetary. By pulling on the
handbrake you were supposed to
be able to put the car into neutral.

Model Ts were never neutral,
about anything. While you crank-
ed, Lizzie would edge forward
against your shoulder, nuzzling
you like an old horse looking for
sugar in your pocket.

The carburetor was equipped
with an adjustable needle valve
which you could crank down so
fine that the car ran on almost
nothing but air, the engine head
running hotter than the hinges on
the gates of hell.

Economy was important in the
Thirties. Gasoline was getting up
toward two bits a gallon. We
made gas go even further by mix-
ing it with kerosene, which came
cheaper.

A friend named Billy Kuhn
owned a more adventurous Model
T which was fitted which a Rexall
axle, guaranteed to produce twice
the fun.

Billy used to drive his car off a
ramp in the barnyard so that all
four wheels left the ground and
passengers sometimes fell out. But
he was one of those exceptional!
people. He could also tie grocery
store string around his arm and
break it by flexing his bicep. It’s
hard. Try it some time.

Lizzie and [ went through the
late ’30s with me hanging both
feet out the window while driving,
a sophistication only possible in
cars with hand throttles. Then
came Mr. Hitler, the son of a
bitch, and he parted us.

I will never forget her.

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