THE THRILL OF THE UNMARKED CAR
By Dick Meister
SUV, pickup truck or sedan, hardtop or convertible, it doesn't matter.
You're driving what is in effect a moving billboard, labeled front, side and
rear with the manufacturer's name and distinctive logo.
Racing car drivers are paid plenty for plastering their vehicles with ads,
but the rest of us get nothing for our efforts in behalf of American
commerce.
We also should be paid plenty. But since we are not paid, vehicle makers
surely should remove their names from vehicles once they are purchased. They
do become our property, after all, or at least the property of the financial
institutions of our choice.
Ah, but have you ever tried to get a dealer to remove the maker's name from
the outside of a vehicle you wished to purchase? I have. It is virtually
impossible.
You must shout. You must demand. You must fend off withering looks and harsh
words that question your sanity. You must pay extra.
Only then will you have an ad-free vehicle. And that's assuming you also can
avoid the surreptitious affixing of license plate holders advertising the
dealer who sells such fine merchandise.
But great adventure awaits those who prevail. I know. I did it in buying the
Triumph Spitfire that, for reasons only a psychiatrist could explain, I'm
still driving 28 years later.
The thrills began almost immediately. My wife Gerry and I were purring
along, a mild summer breeze blowing gently around us, brilliant sky above,
and not a Highway Patrolman in sight. Sixty, seventy ....
Suddenly, a car roared up behind us and then pulled alongside. The driver
waved, and shouted. What was he saying? "Flat? Flat?"
My God, and we were going close to 80! Gerry didn't panic. She never does.
But me, well ... "Look! Look! Which tire! Which tire! Find it! Watch out!
Hang on!"
The car next to us slowed as we slowed, and the driver repeated his message.
Only now I could see that he was smiling -- and hear that he was not saying
"flat" at all. The word was "Fiat,"as in, "Is that a Fiat, or what?"
Some people don't even bother asking the question. They think they already
know the answer. The other day, for instance, there was this couple crossing
an intersection in front of us, eyeing my magnificent unmarked machine.
"What?" asked the man, smirking most knowledgeably. "A Fiat, of course."
Imagine. My British beauty -- pearl white, it is, with black trim -- being
taken for an Italian just because it doesn't have an identifying label on
the front, side or rear.
And how about those kids staring intently from the rear of cars in front of
us on freeways, demanding to know what they're looking at. It's not easy to
concentrate on the road with two, three, maybe four kids mugging and waving
and pointing as you roll full tilt down the road.
Coming upon suspicious characters hovering about your auto in darkened
parking lots and alongside the curb on dark city streets is plenty exciting
too. They always say things like, "Just trying to figure what make car you
got here, mister." But life in the big city being what it is, I'm never
quite sure about that.
And men, the thrill of romance can be yours. You also can be approached in
garages and parking lots by young women anxious to learn the identity of
"that great looking car."
I understand, though, that some people actually like those vehicular labels
and emblems, particularly if the labels spell out such important words as
"Mercedes-Benz" or "Porche." The emblems, especially, are attractive as well
to people who don't have the cars that go with them. Dozens of the emblems
are stolen every day in cities across the country, but they invariably
are replaced by the owners, and for as much as $150 or more apiece.
One Mercedes dealer in San Francisco reported that some of his customers
have replaced as many as nine of the star ornaments on the hoods of their
vehicles. That included one customer who came to the dealer "literally in
tears" after losing his second hood ornament in as many days.
"A lot of our customers can't drive without those stars," said the dealer.
"Seriously. That's their guiding light."
It's a pity so many with so much to spend are so lacking in the spirit of
adventure. But though I'm sure I haven't lost the spirit, I admit to
weakening a bit of late. The Spitfire is not getting any younger, and
neither am I.
To be truthful, the car is going through an identity crisis. The trouble
started after I came dashing out of a downtown building in which I had been
transacting some important business awhile back, quite aware that the time
had expired on the parking meter. A meter maid in no-nonsense navy blue was
slowly circling my pearl white British beauty, peering quizzically at the
front, side and rear.
"Ah," said I, "just in time."
"No," said she. "Ticket's written up. Just looking to see what make to
put on it."
"Oh, ho. And what happens if I don't tell you?"
"Nothing. I'll just write it up, 'Make unknown.' Actually, you know, it
doesn't really matter what it is."
Copyright © 2006 Dick Meister