I bought my ’92 Ford Escort (red with red interior, hatchback, standard transmission) new. I had just started a new job, and needed a car to drive back and forth to work. The new job lasted six weeks. The Escort lasted 16 years.
It was such a thrill to drive a new car. It was so prestigious. I felt a surge of pride every time I saw it waiting for me in the parking lot. Nothing went wrong with it for years, aside from an occasional oil change and a run through the car wash. I drove out of town, took vacations, ran countless errands, got back and forth to work, and lived a life of bliss with my Ford Escort.
I love the “little car revenge” I’d feel every time I parked between two giant SUV’s, and my Escort would disappear between them. I’d snicker with contempt with the idea that a driver in an oversized car would come along, ecstatic that they had found a place to park, only to find out that my Ford Escort was already occupying the sport. I felt like the Grinch on Christmas Eve, and I loved every minute of it.
With time, it needed repair work. Struts broke, the clutch wore out, and occasionally a sensor would need to be replaced. The radiator would occasionally leak, and always on December 23rd. Rust settled in, first noticeable under the hatchback. Eventually it would take over the rear wheel wells, and crept up the sides. Frantically, I glued the paint and metal back on as the rust forced it off. This bought me some time. The seat belt on the driver’s side started to fray. I fixed it by cutting one of the seat belts in the back seat off and, using glue and duct tape, adhered them as a splint for the frayed belt in the front. It was my car, and I loved it. It was almost as if I were caring for a terminally ill patient.
I knew my Escort was nearing the end when the brake lines rusted out. I had them repaired, knowing that it was probably a waste of money. About a month later, the bad news came when I took the car in for a routine oil change. The mechanic told me that the frame of the car had rusted so badly it actually broke in half, and it was no longer safe to drive. I cried unabashedly; first, because I had lost the car, and second, because I had no idea what to do. I hadn’t bought a car in 16 years, and frankly, I didn’t want to. I wanted my red Escort, now. But it wasn’t meant to be.
I’ve owned two cars since then, and it’s apparent that nothing will ever replace my beloved red hatchback. It will always be the standard by which all other vehicles will be compared. My hunch is that nothing will come close.