Growing up, my progression of automobile ownership was perhaps not unlike that of many other kids in blue-collar families of the 1990s. Upon turning 16 and earning your license, you save your meager funds, and you take what you can get. In my case, what I could get was my grandparents’ well-worn Oldsmobile sedan, resplendent with red velour interior, pointy spoked hubcaps, and a vibrant colony of electrical gremlins that regularly caused me to become stranded on the side of the road.
Knowing that I was fortunate to have a car at all and understanding that complaining would in no way reduce the frequency of breakdowns, I rolled with it, ultimately developing a creative solution. I’d simply remove both of my bike’s wheels and keep it stored in the trunk. It was better to have it and not need it than the other way around, I reasoned. And sure enough, about once a week, I’d leave the dead Oldsmobile on the shoulder of the road and deploy my auxiliary bicycle to reach my destination more or less on time. As I recall, the car would magically start back up after sitting for most of the day.
