I’d wanted a Volkswagen Beetle ever since I rode in one for the first time, when I was four years old.  I don’t quite remember where I was going or whom I was with – I believe I was with a friend and his mom – but I sure can remember the car.

The exterior color was a strong, dark green, and the shape was weird and egglike – not at all like my parents’ Chevrolet.  Inside, the VW was even quirkier.  A straphandle dangled over each door like a pair of bloodhound’s ears. The ceiling was upholstered with a vinyl sheet with perforations in a cross-diagonal pattern.  There was no dashboard to speak of – just a steering wheel with a castle-and-wolf crest in its center cap (which I later learned was the official symbol of Volkswagen’s hometown of Wolfsburg, Germany), complimented by only a few gauges and controls propped up against a flat windshield.  No padding whatsoever.         

Climbing into the back, I noticed a strange aroma coming from the vinyl.  It was a light, slightly pungent smell, not at all like the insufferably stale air in my parents’ car.  The interior felt comfortable without being too soft; the car’s size made it feel almost cozy to sit in the rear seat.   Then my friend’s mom started the car.  As we rode away, I could hear the engine behind me going putt-putt-putt-putt-putt.    

I was hooked. I wanted a Volkswagen when I grew up. Over the next twenty years or so, American cars got smaller, Volkswagen replaced the Beetle with the Rabbit, and Japanese car makes like Toyota and Honda became the most popular imports in America.  Except for a few times in my childhood where I strayed and was a Chevy fan, I remained obsessed with the VW Bug. I always loved its unique styling, and its reputation for providing cheap, reliable transportation appealed to me.  Throughout my college years, however, I couldn’t afford a car of my own, regardless of make, model and year.  With fewer Beetles in the used car marketplace, it looked like my dream of owning a VW would remain only that.

Then, in the spring of 1990, I spotted an ad for a Bug for sale.  It was a 1972 Super Beetle, with a semi-automatic transmission and 79,000 miles – for a mere $1500.  I knew it was a must-see, and I wanted to check it out right away.

Everyone thought I was crazy – especially my mother.  “A ‘72?!?” she said in disgust.  “What do you want with a car like that? You’re making a mistake.  You’re going to have problems with a car that old.”  But I needed a car, and so my mother let me go and see it, and my father went along with me.

Everyone thought I was crazy – especially my mother.  “A ‘72?!?” she said in disgust.  “What do you want with a car like that? You’re making a mistake.  You’re going to have problems with a car that old.”  But I needed a car, and so my mother let me go and see it, and my father went along with me.

The Super Beetle was in better shape than I expected.  The body had no flaws save some rust in the right side and a slight dent in the rear fender.  The interior was clean and well kept, and the engine purred smoothly when I started it up.  Furthermore, the paint job was still pretty much intact – no cracks, no peeling.  In fact, its only drawback was its color – bright orange.  With a black interior, it resembled a jack-o-lantern on wheels.

Undeterred, I took the VW for a test drive on the local streets to get the feel of it.  The handling was tight, and the acceleration was steady.  The putt-putt-putt-putt-putt of the engine was louder than I recalled from the days of my childhood.  As it turned out, I didn’t like this Super Beetle; I loved it.  Within a week, it was mine.

I proudly drove my VW home on chilly Saturday in April, and the reception I got was much warmer.  My mother’s friend, an auto mechanic, like the car’s performance.  My grandmother fell in love with it right away; she thought it was cute.  My father said I’d made a sound purchase.  Even my mother was impressed.  The only person who still thought I was a fool was my sister, who couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be caught dead in such a car.  Fine by me; I wouldn’t have to worry about her borrowing it.  I ruled.  In fact, I conquered.

For the next five years, my Volkswagen was my most prized possession.  The crisp ride and the smooth-shifting semi-automatic transmission made even the most mundane trips a joy.  Highway travel was a blast, as I cut through the speeding traffic on the fast lane like a knife through freshly baked bread.  People would honk their horns in approval as they rode by.  I also got favorable comments from strangers in parking lots. And the orange paint job certainly helped me stand out in a crowd. 

I took my responsibilities as a Beetle owner very seriously I fixed the rust with epoxy and touchup paint as soon as I bought the car.  I accepted the owner’s manual as the gospel, filling my tank with 91 octane gasoline and getting the oil changed right on schedule – 3000 miles, not a foot more – as much as possible.  And I washed my VW at least once a month to keep that orange color looking bright.

Some of my fondest memories involve my Beetle.  The first summer I owned it, I drove down to Ocean City, N.J., for a three-day weekend of sun, surf, and bicycle riding.  The drive there and back on the Garden State Parkway was as much fun as being at the shore, and I enjoyed cruising on the long, open road without the worry of any heavy trucks – forbidden on the Parkway – spoiling my fun.  The car performed smoothly and responsively, and the passing lane was never a problem despite the seemingly anemic 46 horsepower of my engine. 

Another summer, I drove it to an outdoor Richie Havens concert. Upon arrival, I parked my car among a few VW Microbuses and made my way through the tie-dyed shirts with my lawn chair underarm.  Peace and love, brother.  Richie Havens was in top form, giving a great show.  I went home elated, playing the same Crosby, Stills and Nash tape I’d heard on the way there.  I was too young to attend or even remember Woodstock; this was the closest I ever came.

My day trips were just as memorable as I drove my VW on the twisting, forested back roads of upstate New York and southeastern Pennsylvania through various hills and dales.  Sadly, the Super Beetle’s lack of torsion bars meant that the ride was never as taut as it could have been, but the overall experience was just as I remembered from my childhood.  The car was still comfortable and cozy, and I appreciated it more from being in the driver’s seat; I always felt in control and had a firm grip on the road, a sharp contrast to the overall soft feel of the Chevy I’d owned earlier.

Sadly, the good times with my “faithful compadre” – as I called my Bug – came to an end.  In the spring of 1995, I took my Volkswagen to my mechanic for routine maintenance when he discovered the Achilles heel that sooner or later afflicts most Beetles – the floor pan was coming apart.  It had simply rotted away and was too much to repair.  I had to replace my Bug with a 1990 Toyota.  Sure, the Toyota was a comfortable little car.  Like most Japanese cars, though, it was bland and anonymous; there was nothing about it to excite or interest me.  I liked the Toyota, but I never grew to love it.

I may not have my VW Beetle anymore, but I have my memories.  I’m still glad to have owned one, and I’d still have it if not for the floor pan.  I have a model Beetle from the Franklin Mint – despite my disdain for “heirloom-quality collectibles” – which I display in my room.  And in the years after I gave up my Bug, every time my grandmother saw a Beetle on the road, she’d say to me, ”Look! There’s your car!”  As far as she was concerned, every Beetle was mine.

My fascination with the Beetle led to an obsession with watercooled Volkswagens, and I eventually bought a new Golf in 2000.  Though I’ve enjoyed my Golf immensely, I still miss my old Bug. 

I have to be honest, though.  Although watercooled Volkswagens have their reliability problems, I had a few problems with my ’72 Super Beetle, not all related to age.  The heater controls didn’t work; I had to get my mechanic to deactivate the heater every May and reconnect it every November.  The accelerator pedal broke twice and I had to call for a tow each time.  And a rattle in the drivetrain turned out to be a major repair costing $750 – half of what I originally paid for the car.

It was still the best car I ever had.

By Steven Maginnis

Steven  is a freelance writer.

Comments(1):

1. My First Car Memories

   My earliest car related memories are of my parents bug. One story involves either me or my brother turning the ignition key while playing inside the parked car. The handbrake was on but the transmission was in 1st so it bumped into the front step of our house. Ooops

   Saturday, March 27, 2010 Martin