Earlier this summer, I took my 2008 Honda Fit to a shop for a quote on replacing my exhaust system. It would cost $1,000, the mechanic told me, but I would get back the $53 that I spent to have them look at it. I said thank you and drove my loud car home.
My exhaust problems started about this time last year, directly following two months during which my car would not start at all. Once that problem was resolved, I had about a week of normal driving before my muffler fell off on the Trans-Canada.
Most of the plastic clips holding my front and rear bumpers to the body have broken off and are now held together with tape. There is rust on every fender. My Honda Fit is a certifiable beater.
I have known beater cars for a little while. The car I drove in high school, a 2003 Nissan Altima, once lost its rearview mirror on the highway and had similar muffler problems. The driver’s side door handle broke off in my hand one winter day, and it died a sudden death when the coolant line inexplicably detached itself and antifreeze mixed with every other fluid in the engine.
My most recent car, a 2008 Honda Accord, burned so much oil that I kept a jug of 5W-20 in the trunk and topped it up nearly every time I filled up with gas. That one nearly died in the parking lot of the Portage la Prairie Canadian Tire — again, it simply would not start. Once revived, a week and a half later, I sold it as quickly as I could for a little over half of what I paid for it before any other problems could arise.
I have never been one to name my cars, unlike many people I know, perhaps akin to the phenomenon of parents from days of old postponing naming their children until it was clear they would survive beyond infancy. Owning a car like this can be a headache like no other, but there is also a beauty in it.
These cars keep you on your toes. I’ve found that the threat of a piece of your vehicle falling off keeps me quite in tune with the driving experience. Increased attentiveness to the car means increased attentiveness to the road, hopefully.
A beater teaches you how to adapt and work with the circumstances available to you. What sort of configuration of zip ties will keep my front bumper from flapping around in the wind until I get home? How many pieces of scrap metal and hose clamps will hold an exhaust system together?
Mostly, though, my beater cars have fostered bonding experiences. There are the brief, circumstantial moments, where people roll down their windows to ask if I’m ok while I’m taping my car back together. Then there are the more intimate moments, like loading my Accord onto the trailer with my dad and getting a box of Timbits after.
Some of my fondest and final memories of my late grandpa involve us working (or, often, rather, him working and me watching intently) on all the various problems of all my various cars, standing in the shop on our phones looking for answers on 12-year-old internet forums, and the quiet and mutual satisfaction of solving a problem in an unorthodox way.
My hometown shop recently echoed the city shop, quoting me $1,000, but adding a caveat — that would only be if they were willing to work on it, which they’re not, really. My 2008 Honda Fit is too far gone to be worked on in any way that matters without it being a complete waste of money. All I can do, then, is have some combination of semi-mechanically inclined family members and myself weld the pieces back together, cross my fingers, and drive that car until it rattles itself into a pile of dust.
I will do it with a smile on my face.
