Auto Biography XI

“Das Bomb”

Fourteen years after buying Jules, it was time to replace him. Ter was now commuting up the highway to work, through a micro-climate infamous for weather that made the low-slung Camaro a hydroplaning hazard. She also spent a lot of time looking up tailpipes and being blinded by bullying headlights in the mirror, so she began talking about an SUV. A larger, higher vehicle would make her feel safer on the road, and since my whole life goes with her whenever she drives away, I was fine with her decision. The tricky part was finding a vehicle that we both liked.

Not that we conducted a coordinated search. Truth is, I liked not having a car payment every month, and we were still so fond of Jules that parting with him seemed like a betrayal. It helped that nobody was producing an SUV that matched our individual wants with mutual needs; we saw nothing on the street that inspired us to further investigation. They all looked the same. They were too big, too boxy, too ordinary, too not right. Typically, as Jules got Ter through one more winter commute, the notion of a new vehicle started fading as spring approached.

Then the Vancouver Olympics happened. A new Volkswagen commercial began running during the evening TV coverage. I have always enjoyed VW commercials, though their bugs and bunnies are not remotely attractive as a means of transport. Besides, everyone knows that Volkswagen drivers are idiots; they’re all over the road, dodging through lanes and trying to get ahead of everyone else—annoying as heck and not that fashionable to boot. But VW TV ads are great. This one in particular:

Aside from showcasing the way I normally drive, I liked the compact look of the vehicle. I liked its strange little name, too: “Tiguan” – a smaller SUV with the power of a tiger and the reflexes of an iguana. Big fun for me, boy. I could spin some fab donuts in that little guy. But did I say anything aloud? Heck, no. It was a Volkswagen. No way would one of them wind up in my driveway.

Uh huh.

Ter got serious about wanting a new vehicle shortly after the Games ended. We talked about trucks ad nauseum but I wrinkled my nose at anything she suggested, and vice versa. Finally, she said, “I haven’t really liked anything except that little Volkswagen.”

Uh oh.

Turned out we’d been in agreement from mid-February and hadn’t known it. She called me at work one day: “I’m looking at the Volkswagen website …” which was basically a call to arms. We pored over specifications and argued about colours (I preferred white, she wanted black). I put a pic of a Tiguan on my computer desktop.

“What’s that?” a co-worker inquired, bending over my shoulder for a closer look.

“My new car,” I replied.

“What is it?”

Saying “Tiguan” only earned a puzzled look, so I resorted to answering, “A Volkswagen.”

We brought Tiggy home on May 1, 2010. They were good about moving Jules while our backs were turned; I recall patting his rear fender on my way into the dealership, and when we saw daylight again, the stall where we’d left him was empty. And there, all puffed up and proud like the vehicular version of Moon Pie, was Tiggy.

The joy of a Tiguan in 2010 was that few other people in town owned one. Ours was rare enough to prompt total strangers to ask what it was. Gradually, more of them appeared on the street and nowadays, I see them in bunches every week. But people still ask about ours. Even Tiguan owners will ask. “How do you like it?”

“We love it,” is our standard reply.

Aside from the annual service curse, he’s exceeded my wildest expectations. He hauled the weight of an ex-husband to the recycling depot in 2011. He helped us move house twice. He has delivered new furniture, carried bags of books and groceries, and most importantly, he has transported Ter safely to work through three soggy winters without the slightest skid. He grips the road and growls before he pounces; if I’m at the wheel, he’s the first away when the light goes green. He’s cute and zippy and he has a kick-ass boss stereo system.

He das bomb.