The only car I ever loved

Teal in color, light on gas and as threatening as a fly — a Honda Civic is the only car I ever grew to love.

Dubbed the “Hot-mobile” by my girlfriend and equipped with a miniature disco ball, this is the car that caused me to fall head over heels for the Civic. Everyone has been exposed to the awesomeness of a Civic in one-way or another, but my experiences in this car surpassed awesome by a long shot. In fact, my experiences with this car were spectacular.

The Hot-mobile was the ideal car. It was quick, fairly reliable and cheap. A thimble of gas could get you across the city and a lack of air conditioning always made it hard to cruise around without the windows down.

Because of this, my girlfriend and I would roll around Winnipeg in this tiny green vehicle with the windows down and the music blaring, using gas that we put into the civic almost a week ago without any signs of it running out.

In a way, the Civic was complete freedom. Even if we were broke, or down to our last dime, we were able to travel freely in the city. We were almost entirely sure that the Civic didn’t really run on gas — maybe it for the fact that it used so little, but whatever it was it was great.

It was as if the car was running on the music and good vibes coming from the people inside of it. In a way, I feel the late Hunter S. Thompson was right when he wrote what he did about the idea of fuel and music powering a car. I honestly felt that this was the case with the Civic.

He said: “Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.”

Rightio Hunter! I agree with this statement. The music on the radio effects what’s in the gas tank and the good energy from the people in the car provide it with fuel! Fuel that would cause the small pistons in the Honda to fire rapidly, causing the muffler to vibrate at a savage rate — making for a bat-out-of-hell “vroooooooooom” that is usually reserved for the race track.

Yes, the Civic was a fine little car.

Whenever I drove the Civic — which wasn’t that often as my girlfriend is a gutsy driver with rally-driver instincts and skills that shadow my ability — I felt like I was driving a little go-kart: one with the engine on the back, the entire thing inches from the ground and the handling capabilities of a rabbit.

I remember a few times when I was working on assignment in the summer where I would pull up next to giant semi-truck, a massive 18-wheeler with wheels the size of my door, and I would think about what would happen if I were to get into an accident with that truck.

The Civic and I would be toast, both of us written off for sure. But there is no time to think about “what ifs” of that nature when one is in a car that handles like a go-kart and sounds like a racecar.

No. One doesn’t have time for much thinking at all.

So you don’t think, you drive. You run that little green racecar on whatever it is that it runs on while you watch the little pin that indicates the level of fuel stand still, and in that moment you think about how awesome the Civic is.

Actually, you don’t really think this — you just feel it.