January 3rd, 1993 -- The Death of the Colt -- Part One
I'm sure there's no eternal question along the lines of whether a Colt trumps a Bronco, since I think the answer is obvious, as Broncos are a pretty serious breed, and Colts are youngin's.
But not being one for assumptions, I put that question to the test in the early hours of January 3rd, 1993, when my Dodge Colt met the business end of a Ford Bronco.
I'm getting ahead of myself, though. Let's go back to the beginning, before I wound up as a leading story on three separate newscasts, before the record-breaking snowfall, before the death of the Colt.
______
The first car I ever owned was a Dodge Colt, a 1979 shit-brown hatchback that earned the moniker "The Love Bug," thanks to no fewer than 16 couples having their first kiss in the back seat of that hatchback. I was given the car in the summer between grade 11 and grade 12, 1990, by my mother, so I wouldn't have to face the lack of safety offered by public transit.
That car went everywhere, and instead of being a "safety," it became escape. Me and Zsa-Zsa would use the car to get the fuck out of dodge back when high school took a turn for the surreal. In grade 12, the province of BC had begun a new "self-directed" method of schooling, meaning there would be extended periods where we'd have no classes. Thursdays? Class from 8:30 to 9:30, then a break until 1:45. What kid's gonna hang around? We'd do the first class, hop in the car, and zip out to the city, where we'd hang with the sexy university and college crowds that she hooked me up with. Thursdays meant at least 100+ return kilometres.
The car was much, much loved by me and everyone I knew. The stories I can tell you, oh! But those stories could fill a novella, and they're for another time.
We beat the shit out of that beater, and it kept on chuggin' -- that is, until an unscrupulous mechanic told me certain death loomed for the car. It'd been two years of non-stop driving to and from college, in and out of the city, all around the province, and I'd wound up putting more than 160,000 kilometres on that trusty piece of crap. I LOVED that car and was resistent to letting it go. Can't it be fixed, I asked? (Apparently so, since I saw that car zipping around the city for the next couple years. How'd I know it was mine? The tell-tale "Yes, but not with you" bumper sticker on its back, for starters.)
Well, my mother believed him, and since she was footing the bill as I was a college student and needed the transport from our rural home, we got rid of the car and bought another vehicle recommended by another mechanic: A 1978 Ford Mustang II, with white exterior and robin's egg blue interior.
That Mustang lived a few sorry months before it broke down on Lion's Gate Bridge in North Vancouver (in the only lane going in that direction) as we were headed up for a party weekend in Whistler. I loved the car while I had it, and my theme song was the Commitments' "Mustang Sally." Every time it played on my tape deck, though, I'd change the words.
Again, that car met its demise pretty shortly after those repairs, since Ford really stands for:
Well, Mom and I kept our eyes open for other options. And then, lo and behold, in the classifieds, a 1982 Dodge Colt. Fuck, yeah, I thought! Fuel-efficient, and lord knew I had a great track record with the first one I'd bought.
So, we went out to East Van, in the very neighbourhood where my new boyfriend now lives, and had a look. The young Greek who owned the car immediately liked me. He'd bought a souped-up I-Roc and had just come into a lot of money, thanks to a lucrative inheritance.
"I've loved this car, you know," he told me. "It doesn't look cool, but god, it was a great, great car, and I'm more interested in making sure it'll be loved by the new owner than I am in making money." He told me about all the things he'd done, the places he'd been. My mom was off to the side, listening to the exchange, with a funny smile on her face. I think she envied the fun she knew I'd have in that little car.
We talked about Colts and how I'd owned one, and I just absolutely loved the candy red exterior, which my mother also loved. My eyes were like a kid on Christmas when he said he'd sell the car for $750 to me. It was love at first sight with that flawlessly red hatchback, and I couldn't wait to get it out and show my friends.
Which, as it happened, would be that night. It was Saturday, January 2nd, 1993. My friends and I had a party at the inimitable Ken & Dan's, a couple whorey bastards who drank far too much booze. Dan was a pasty-skinned alcoholic gay law student who drove a blue Ford Fiesta convertible with pink sports striping. He always looked like he bathed in gin, rather than water, and at 24, was well on his way into the Ted Kennedy school of aesthetics with burst blood vessels in his nose. As much as he was unattractive and sleazy (and you don't even know the half of how bad Ken was), the fucker threw a hell of a party.
We all showed up, had a great night, and my car got rave reviews for its Cute Factor. That night, I stayed over at Anna's place, since we all had the plans of going skiing in the morning. It seemed it was time for me to get schooled in the Mountain Ways. We would leave at 6:30 in the morning and head up the North Shore roadways to take in some skiing on Mount Seymour.
The "slumber party" meant we fell asleep well after 3, and awoke after 7. Things had changed. More than 10 inches of snow fell in just over four hours, and the city was a winter wonderland.
New snow on a Sunday is the best day for it. The world's silent, everyone knows to stay off the roads, and it's fun, unlike snow on weekdays when it's a hassle. I woke up, looked around, and said, "Well, that's too bad. We'll have to do the skiing another time."
Anna, her boyfriend, Shawn, and her two German cousins looked at me like I was nuts.
"Are you NUTS?"
"What?"
"You're learning to ski! There's never a better time to learn to ski than after a fresh, downy coat of snow! This... this is incredible! We NEED to go there today now -- no excuses!"
"Yeah, but there's a foot of snow out there, and this is Surrey -- we have almost 40km to drive to the mountain, and I've never fucking driven in snow like this. Have you?"
Shawn wandered out and checked my new car's treads, then his.
"Well, you have tread. We can do it. Not a problem."
"Yeah, but it's a new car -- I have no idea how it handles in snow."
"Oh, don't worry. It's a front-wheel drive and we've got about 700 pounds of people riding in it, plus our gear. It's cool! Let's do it! Just drive slow. It'll be fine. No-one'll be on the roads. Imagine the stories you'll tell, learning to ski during a record snow dump!"
"Record snow dump" was putting it mildly. It was still coming down more than an inch an hour, and by the day's end, there'd be more than 17 inches of fresh white stuff covering the city. In fact, I was managing a photo lab back then, and would be processing photos for more than the next two years where I'd be sorting through a customer's clearly-old roll of film and would inevitably come across photos of that snowy day, with signs stuck in the snow, "January 3rd, 1993, 17 inches!!" I kid you not. Every time, my heart would go through the floor, as any kid's does when they're remembering the stupidest choice they've ever made.
Well, I was 19 years old then, and I had no ability to shun peer pressure. I caved like a fat man on a diet in front of Tim Horton's. Done like dinner, I capitulated, and before long, we hopped in the car and headed for the hills.
"My mother's gonna fuckin' kill me," I thought silently as I started the ignition with all five of us crammed into that itty-bitty beast of a red car.
Oh, and would she ever.
Tomorrow, the conclusion, which is already written -- for a change. ;)
That car went everywhere, and instead of being a "safety," it became escape. Me and Zsa-Zsa would use the car to get the fuck out of dodge back when high school took a turn for the surreal. In grade 12, the province of BC had begun a new "self-directed" method of schooling, meaning there would be extended periods where we'd have no classes. Thursdays? Class from 8:30 to 9:30, then a break until 1:45. What kid's gonna hang around? We'd do the first class, hop in the car, and zip out to the city, where we'd hang with the sexy university and college crowds that she hooked me up with. Thursdays meant at least 100+ return kilometres.
The car was much, much loved by me and everyone I knew. The stories I can tell you, oh! But those stories could fill a novella, and they're for another time.
We beat the shit out of that beater, and it kept on chuggin' -- that is, until an unscrupulous mechanic told me certain death loomed for the car. It'd been two years of non-stop driving to and from college, in and out of the city, all around the province, and I'd wound up putting more than 160,000 kilometres on that trusty piece of crap. I LOVED that car and was resistent to letting it go. Can't it be fixed, I asked? (Apparently so, since I saw that car zipping around the city for the next couple years. How'd I know it was mine? The tell-tale "Yes, but not with you" bumper sticker on its back, for starters.)
Well, my mother believed him, and since she was footing the bill as I was a college student and needed the transport from our rural home, we got rid of the car and bought another vehicle recommended by another mechanic: A 1978 Ford Mustang II, with white exterior and robin's egg blue interior.That Mustang lived a few sorry months before it broke down on Lion's Gate Bridge in North Vancouver (in the only lane going in that direction) as we were headed up for a party weekend in Whistler. I loved the car while I had it, and my theme song was the Commitments' "Mustang Sally." Every time it played on my tape deck, though, I'd change the words.
"Mustang Steffi --
think you'd better sloooooow that Mustang down
All you wanna do is side around, Steffi
Ride, Steffi, ride."
think you'd better sloooooow that Mustang down
All you wanna do is side around, Steffi
Ride, Steffi, ride."
Again, that car met its demise pretty shortly after those repairs, since Ford really stands for:
- Fucked on Race Day
- Found on Road Dead
Well, Mom and I kept our eyes open for other options. And then, lo and behold, in the classifieds, a 1982 Dodge Colt. Fuck, yeah, I thought! Fuel-efficient, and lord knew I had a great track record with the first one I'd bought.
So, we went out to East Van, in the very neighbourhood where my new boyfriend now lives, and had a look. The young Greek who owned the car immediately liked me. He'd bought a souped-up I-Roc and had just come into a lot of money, thanks to a lucrative inheritance.
"I've loved this car, you know," he told me. "It doesn't look cool, but god, it was a great, great car, and I'm more interested in making sure it'll be loved by the new owner than I am in making money." He told me about all the things he'd done, the places he'd been. My mom was off to the side, listening to the exchange, with a funny smile on her face. I think she envied the fun she knew I'd have in that little car.
We talked about Colts and how I'd owned one, and I just absolutely loved the candy red exterior, which my mother also loved. My eyes were like a kid on Christmas when he said he'd sell the car for $750 to me. It was love at first sight with that flawlessly red hatchback, and I couldn't wait to get it out and show my friends.
Which, as it happened, would be that night. It was Saturday, January 2nd, 1993. My friends and I had a party at the inimitable Ken & Dan's, a couple whorey bastards who drank far too much booze. Dan was a pasty-skinned alcoholic gay law student who drove a blue Ford Fiesta convertible with pink sports striping. He always looked like he bathed in gin, rather than water, and at 24, was well on his way into the Ted Kennedy school of aesthetics with burst blood vessels in his nose. As much as he was unattractive and sleazy (and you don't even know the half of how bad Ken was), the fucker threw a hell of a party.
We all showed up, had a great night, and my car got rave reviews for its Cute Factor. That night, I stayed over at Anna's place, since we all had the plans of going skiing in the morning. It seemed it was time for me to get schooled in the Mountain Ways. We would leave at 6:30 in the morning and head up the North Shore roadways to take in some skiing on Mount Seymour.
The "slumber party" meant we fell asleep well after 3, and awoke after 7. Things had changed. More than 10 inches of snow fell in just over four hours, and the city was a winter wonderland.
New snow on a Sunday is the best day for it. The world's silent, everyone knows to stay off the roads, and it's fun, unlike snow on weekdays when it's a hassle. I woke up, looked around, and said, "Well, that's too bad. We'll have to do the skiing another time."Anna, her boyfriend, Shawn, and her two German cousins looked at me like I was nuts.
"Are you NUTS?"
"What?"
"You're learning to ski! There's never a better time to learn to ski than after a fresh, downy coat of snow! This... this is incredible! We NEED to go there today now -- no excuses!"
"Yeah, but there's a foot of snow out there, and this is Surrey -- we have almost 40km to drive to the mountain, and I've never fucking driven in snow like this. Have you?"
Shawn wandered out and checked my new car's treads, then his.
"Well, you have tread. We can do it. Not a problem."
"Yeah, but it's a new car -- I have no idea how it handles in snow."
"Oh, don't worry. It's a front-wheel drive and we've got about 700 pounds of people riding in it, plus our gear. It's cool! Let's do it! Just drive slow. It'll be fine. No-one'll be on the roads. Imagine the stories you'll tell, learning to ski during a record snow dump!"
"Record snow dump" was putting it mildly. It was still coming down more than an inch an hour, and by the day's end, there'd be more than 17 inches of fresh white stuff covering the city. In fact, I was managing a photo lab back then, and would be processing photos for more than the next two years where I'd be sorting through a customer's clearly-old roll of film and would inevitably come across photos of that snowy day, with signs stuck in the snow, "January 3rd, 1993, 17 inches!!" I kid you not. Every time, my heart would go through the floor, as any kid's does when they're remembering the stupidest choice they've ever made.
Well, I was 19 years old then, and I had no ability to shun peer pressure. I caved like a fat man on a diet in front of Tim Horton's. Done like dinner, I capitulated, and before long, we hopped in the car and headed for the hills.
"My mother's gonna fuckin' kill me," I thought silently as I started the ignition with all five of us crammed into that itty-bitty beast of a red car.
Oh, and would she ever.
Tomorrow, the conclusion, which is already written -- for a change. ;)
posted by Scribe Called Steff at 1:53 PM
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