I’ve decided my 1995 Saturn and I belong together. Sixty wasn’t a milestone for me. A hundred sixty wasn’t a milestone for her.
More than a year has gone by since we hit those numbers and we’ve decided to stay together. It takes a little more maintenance for both of us, but then, she’s now up to 180,000 miles.
I, of course, no longer add numbers to my age. I only keep track of the numbers that count – like those on the scale and cholesterol, sugar and blood pressure levels. As long as they’re OK, I couldn’t care less about the numbers on my driver’s license.
She’s had some problems though, and for awhile I wasn’t sure she was going to make it.
In 2004, the year after we became family, courtesy of the Tampa Machinery Auction, she had some undercarriage problems. I understood that completely, having had some undercarriage problems of my own a few years before.
Hers cost $750, which was $30,000 less than my bill had been. Not bad, I thought. Some people I know pay more than that to the bank each month just for the privilege of driving their cars for another 30 days, while the title to “Babe” (which I so uninterestingly named her) arrived two weeks after she did and rests – free and clear – in my home office filing cabinet.
I’ve decided that Babe, like everything else, is a gamble. And while I may not be a gambler at heart, I’m certainly willing to take a chance she’ll run another year if I spend $400 or $500 once or twice a year.
I’m careful to change her oil every 3,500 miles whether she needs it or not; keep 32 pounds of pressure in each tire and have the basics checked and changed as needed. She’s much easier to keep on the road than some of the vehicles I drove while raising my older children in the ‘70s. Back then, I learned to put the “stick” back into the right “hole” underneath a Chevy truck to make the clutch work again; how to remove and wipe-out spark plugs and replace the coil wire that attached to the distributor (which taken together, was my version of a “tune-up” and that nothing cleaned crud off a battery better than club soda.
Still, even having experienced these things, there were times in 2005 and 2006 that I wavered in my decision to keep Babe around.
Now you’ve got to realize there are days when 100 miles is nothing for me to drive; running my 9-year-old to and from after-school programs; interviewing and taking photographs for the newspaper; and oh yeah – life.
First there was the new water pump. Then, when the battery light went on, we bought a new alternator. A tire blew. A belt snapped. The A/C blew warm air.
My son found out I was driving carloads of kids around in 100-degree heat and had a new A/C compressor installed. It made another shiny spot next to all the old black parts under the hood.
A few months later, Babe started “balking.” You know what I mean – not spitting or stalling, but not being able to successfully pass a line of semi trucks on the interstate at a comfortable 78 either.
When I took her to the doctor that time I thought she might be headed for the “U-pull-em-parts” lot.
I was right to worry. The diagnosis was indeed critical.
Her catalytic converter was in very bad shape. In fact, she had to have a transplant. If the damaged converter wasn’t removed soon, she would only go slower, and slower – until in time, she would stop.
The dealer said fixing her would be almost $1,500.
I’ll bet you already know what my answer was. I took her home and prepared for our eventual separation. Now, I may be somewhat sentimental, but I knew down deep inside that the worst part of that separation would be the parting of my money from my bank account. If I junked Babe, I would have to make car payments again.
So, I divided $1,500 by 12 – the number of payments I would have to make in a year – and came up with $125.
Why, I couldn’t get a decent car for $125 a month! We’d just have to make it through this thing together.
My next move was to the internet like it always is whenever the doctor tells me of some new suspected disease.
Comparing the dealer’s sheet of what needed to be done with the information I found on “catalytic converters and their function” I realized I didn’t really need a whole new exhaust system; I just needed the converter itself.
And doggone it, guess what? Catalytic converters can be bought at most auto parts stores for between $75 and $100, depending on your car’s make and model. Babe’s pipes weren’t damaged, her converter was just tired and full of junk. I imagined it was a little bit like I feel at the end of the day if I eat too much fast food.
So I did what I always do when a new disease pops up: I consulted a specialist. Only this time it was a welder instead of a mechanic and he had the new converter in place in 15 minutes.
“Now clean her out,” he said as I was leaving.
I knew what that meant. It was the old “Castor Oil and Blackstrap Molasses” principle.
It’s surprising how much black soot you can blow out of a tailpipe between the Apollo Beach and Gibsonton exits of I-75. Babe ran like a scalded dog and I was thrilled I hadn’t had to have separation surgery – you know, the one where they cut into, and physically remove, the money from your wallet.
It’s been seven months since that day and except when she demanded two new $8 spark plugs, Babe has been happy as a clam. She behaves well in South Shore’s rush-hour traffic; passes lines of trucks on I-75 and winds through the “secret shortcuts” through the secret shortcuts I often tell you about.
So for now, we’re still on the road together, Babe and I – still racking up those miles. Like everything around us, we’re constantly changing and neither of us ever know when we’ll need another repair. After all, when you hit certain “milestones” you’re expected to have a little shake, rattle and roll.
But then again, being an older Babe can also be a whole lot of fun. I’m wondering what she’ll want when she hits the 200,000 mile mark?
I told her not to worry. If she doesn’t give up on me, I won’t give up on her.

Penny Fletcher is the editor of The Sun.