When I think back to my high school days, my first car is always part of the memories. It wasn’t a pretty car and didn’t get good mileage but it was a perfect car for the speed-happy teen I was back in the 70s. I called my car “The Tank” and told my friends I wished I could just drive over cars in my way. I was 16 or 17 years old when my sister’s used car was handed down to me.
That’s how it works in big families. Everything from clothing to bikes to cars and sometimes boy or girlfriends is passed down. My sister was in college by then and had moved up to a used Rambler. The Tank was a 1963 Ford Galaxy 500. I don’t know what color it was originally but probably a brighter shade of what my Mom called aqua. The Tank was pretty faded by the time it rolled my way.
When I think about what I liked the best about my first car, the first thing I think about is speed. I was a bit of a wild teenager and way too fast was just my speed. With a big V-8 engine, The Tank was built for speed. A guy from one of my classes told me that I passed him on the highway when he was going 95 MPH and that I never slowed down.
The Tank also provided the freedom I so desperately desired. Anyone who has parented a wild teen can tell you that the illusion of independence is most sought after at this age. I could and did go almost anywhere in my car. The Tank was indestructible as I discovered when someone rear-ended me on the ice one winter afternoon. The grill of the Torino that hit me was destroyed but The Tank didn’t even have a scratch. However, the impact messed up the gas float and odometer. From that point on, I had to keep track of how many blocks I drove each time I put gas into the car in a futile effort to keep from running out of gas.
My mom didn’t know most of the places I went, lucky for me. My dad worked and was usually asleep by the time I got home at night but Mom waited up. One time Mom put her foot down quickly and absolutely about me and my car was when I told her that I was going to drive with my best friend to Colorado in The Tank. We lived in eastern Kansas so it would have been at least a 425-450 mile drive. I really didn’t understand when Mom said I would absolutely not be driving to Colorado but I do now.
From a practical standpoint, The Tank would never work for a teen in today’s world. It wasn’t a stylish car and stylish is in these days. More importantly, in these days of $3.00 plus gallons of gas, The Tank would not be practical. Gas was about 35 cents a gallon in the 70s so the 10-12 miles per gallon wasn’t as big of a problem. I earned about $1 an hour or less working part time and added gas a dollar at a time.
Back then, all gas stations pumped your gas for you and checked fluids, washed your windshield, and other amenities all for no extra charge. One time the gas station attendant told me that I was two quarts low on oil. I told him, “I only have a dollar. It will run without oil but won’t run without gas!” Oh, the folly of youth.
One moment that is scary now looking back didn’t faze me at all back then. I was driving home from Kansas City one night with my younger brother in The Tank. It was about a 30-45 minute drive, mostly on a country highway. We ran out of gas on the side of the road about halfway home. We walked a ways to the nearest house and, being a farm, they had a gas tank on their property. They helped us out, probably thinking the whole time what fools we were. Needless to say, that’s one story I never shared with my Mom and Dad.
When I married and moved across country, The Tank was sold for scrap metal for about $15. It broke my heart but I was moving to a state that required annual car safety inspections and The Tank would never have passed. They just don’t make cars like that anymore. All that remains now of The Tank is one faded photograph and a lot of great memories. I’ve owned a lot of cars since The Tank but none of them have ever held the same place in my heart.