The Love Bug Of My Life

The men in my family had a passion for cars. My father loved the comfort and luxurious interior of big, bold and black American cars with the Buick Electra 225 series as his favorite; my brothers loved those wing-tipped De Soto cars popular in the late ’50s through the ’60s, and the Chevys, Impalas and Vauxhalls of the ’70s.

In contrast, my mother had no favorite car or model; she only asked for two things: Her car had to be in tip-top condition (road-worthy and gassed up) and that no one should borrow it during her marketing and shopping days, which suited little me – the odd one in a male-dominated household.

One day, my father said, "You have a choice: A coming-out party or a brand new Thunderbird." My eyes lit up and I replied, "a party please!" as I turned quick enough to catch my brothers about to wring my neck like a dripping wet shirt out to dry! They pulled me to a corner and jeered, "How can you choose such a frivolous and trivial thing over a sleek, handsome, knock-the-girls-out machine?"

Cars did not impress me. I am like my mother. I’m happy to have any four-wheel vehicle that can take me from one point to the other.

It was no big thing therefore when my fiancé got a "midnight blue" 1970 Volkswagen 1200 Beetle as some kind of a pre-nuptial gift. That is, until my brand-new husband announced, "Mario is coming over to teach you how to drive." Just like that. He didn’t wait for my litany of buts because he knew I would resist it, stomp my foot and show my teeth, if only to drive home the point that I didn’t want to drive!

I sulked and pouted until my husband explained, "For the simple and practical reason that I wouldn’t have the time to drive you to work every day." End of tantrum.

On my first day, Mario sat me on the driver’s seat and said, "Here’s the accelerator, the clutch and the brake. Turn on the key and step on the power." The car jerked and I panicked. Mario stayed cool as a cucumber. "Balance the flow of gas between the accelerator and the clutch so you don’t drown the machine." He taught me to feel the motor and listen to it. If it purred like a kitten, I was handling it right.

The first hour passed and I was amazed that I was still behind the wheel. I trembled, however, that the road had more cars than I could handle. Instinctively, I shut my eyes, holding the wheel tight as I heard cars zooming to the left and right of me. Well what do you know? I didn’t feel any bump. Other cars did stay away and kept a distance from each other. But the terror was still there. What do I do? Mario gave a simple explanation: Unless you have amassed enough personal funds to buy all the streets in Manila, you had to share them with the whirling-derby, driving public!

On my fifth day, the motor was humming and my grip on the wheel had eased up. My confidence had built up to the point that I could even hold the wheel with just my right hand. Mario admonished me, "Always hold the wheel with both hands. Don’t ever get too comfortable. Drive defensively, never offensively."

When we stopped at a safe curve, Mario opened the door, stepped out of the car and waved goodbye! He was leaving me. He felt that I had gained enough confidence to drive alone and be a good and disciplined driver. I broke into a cold sweat and automatically turned on the one luxury item in my car: a radio.

And so it began – my driving relationship with "Herbie," our Volkswagen which I named after the original Herbie of Walt Disney’s Love Bug.

I would get up at 5:45 in the morning to be on the road by 6:15 and be at the office by 6:55 – a clear five minutes to spare before I started another full day at my desk.

Before long, every friend, officemate, security guard, janitor and technical staff knew Herbie and they were happy to give me a stiff salute or a friendly wave every time I found an empty slot in the employees’ parking lot. Herbie was dependable, safe and cheap to own. I felt extra proud during the typhoon season because unlike other expensive and luxurious cars, Herbie never stalled on me. He could drive past inches of street flood, if not literally float me to dry and safe ground. Hah! No other car could boast that!

When our firstborn was old enough to go to pre-school, I would scoop him from his bed and dress him up inside Herbie because I packed the whole house with me! There was the enameled basin filled with lukewarm water complete with washcloth and baby cologne for an impromptu sponge bath; the well-stuffed picnic basket with complete breakfast for two and not to forget, the convenient and necessary porta loo!

A decade passed and Herbie was still on the road. By this time, I had become some kind of a speed freak, squeezing in and out of traffic and happily discovering that the driving public was extra tolerant of women drivers (not anymore!). One perky wave or eye contact and a space would suddenly open for Herbie and me.

One time, I beat a red light and got this traffic officer wildly waving at me to stop. Of course, even before I lowered down my window, I was determined to apologize and admit my fault. The dear officer was so amazed at my meek and humble reaction that he let me go without a fuss. That officer became my friend and whenever I would pass the same intersection, he would recognize Herbie and wave me through.

Herbie continued to hum and purr until one day he didn’t budge. A mechanic diagnosed the culprit as the starter and the only way for Herbie to move was to be pushed. Luckily, Herbie was light enough, but can you imagine the scene I had to make every time he needed a shove? Security guards at the office, motorists on the road, even friends or passengers had to get down to give Herbie a strong and steady nudge.

It still worked fine and Herbie stayed on until our child was old enough to navigate me away from every pothole and/or hump.

One day, my husband came home with a surprise. A brand new Mitsubishi Lancer, fully loaded and looking sleek and chic. With the car came the happy announcement that a full-time driver would now drive me to and from work. "Just think of the convenience of not having to look for a parking space yourself," my husband said.

When I parked Herbie in the garage to stay there for good, it felt like I was voluntarily retiring a friend. I still took Herbie out on weekends but unfortunately, we couldn’t fix that troublesome starter.

One day, someone offered to buy Herbie for an amount higher than what my husband paid for. "What a good deal," everybody said. I didn’t feel that way.

It was a sad and gloomy day. I had just lost a driven friend.