Chantal's Blue Twin

Everyone has their fantasies, right? I don’t subscribe to Car and Driver, but I like to look around. Sometimes when I’m stuck in backed up traffic on the freeway, I pass the time by noticing the makes and models—and colors and styles—of the vehicles around me. I’ve long considered my dream (read “expensive” and “impractical”) vehicle to be a pickup. Probably a Ford, because that’s how I was raised. But I like smaller cars, too, and behind the wheel of a cherry red compact with music blaring and the speedometer pushing 80, I feel zippy and fast and alive. A few years ago I traveled by air to attend to a family event, and as I sped down the freeway in my rental car, I found a radio station playing a song I liked. I took in the city skyline as it flowed around me, and I started to sing along. The realization hit me with surprise: I am having fun.

Since then, I always look forward to heading out into the airport garage to get my first glimpse of my rental car, my pal, my toy for the next few days. What color will it be, what novel gadgets will it feature (I love, love, love remote controls on key rings). Will it make me feel as though I could swerve back and forth across several lanes while holding an open bottle of soda and never spilling a drop? Not that I’d ever do that … but I can appreciate a smooth ride.

Back home, my own car for the past many years had been a spunky little Plymouth Neon named Gilly. Gilly was awesome; she had been with me through so many life experiences: cross-country moves, my first trip to New England, and of course, marathons. She was waiting for me in the parking lot at the University of Utah stadium when I walked from the finish line of my first marathon. I could climb in through her driver’s side door and feel embraced. Her air-conditioning system was the roll-down-the-windows-and-drive model, she had manual locks and windows, and her little green body sported a few dents and scrapes, some she’d had since I’d known her and a few more inflicted by poles and walls when I failed to steer her precisely enough in and out of my reserved carport and, later, garage parking spots. But I didn’t worry about her. I knew she was tough. I knew she could take it.

And then, finally, I knew it was time to move on. She had lived a good life. Still, I felt a sense of loss surrendering her at the Carmax store. Would she feel abandoned? For months after I got my new Hyundai, which I named Chantal, I had trouble recognizing her in the parking lot. Sometimes I’d take a second look and wonder, “Is that my car? Really? Is that my car?” I’d catch myself thinking about Chantal and calling her Gilly … and since I’ve always shared a mental telepathy connection with my cars, I worried that Chantal might hear me!

But Chantal, who is sleekly silver and has air-conditioning that works with the windows rolled up, has taken her own place in my heart. The proof is in the rental car.

Chantal at a favorite weekend spot

This March, I traveled to Utah for a half-marathon in Moab and was initially excited to try out the blue Nissan the customer service rep offered me. He promised a novel experience: no-key ignition. The car had a start button, he explained, and I would love it. I eyed him skeptically. Would I be able to figure out how to turn the car on? He assured me it was very intuitive. “Very intuitive”—aren’t those code words for something? Aren’t they a sort of euphemism? I don’t know. But I do know I sat in the car in the garage for several minutes trying to get in touch with my intuition. That whole trip, I felt like the car was smarter than I was. I had such a hard time getting it to do what I wanted, and yet I could tell I was barely scratching the surface of its capabilities. If I’d had more time, I could have studied the owner’s manual and at least gotten really, truly sure that I was working the headlights correctly. At least I could see the road, so that was something. But I could almost hear that Nissan sighing at me. “Fine, go and do it the hard way,” it seemed to say. I was used to having to roll down my window by hand; remote controlled locks I liked, but too many automated features offend my control-freak tendencies.

So when I flew to Indianapolis in June for the Carmel Marathon and the service rep gave me the choice between a Grinch-green Ford and what looked like Chantal’s twin painted blue, I practically dove for the Hyundai. The service rep didn’t approve. She thought I’d have a lot more fun with the Ford. I peeked in it’s windows and saw a console that brought back memories of the Nissan in Utah. Uh uh. I wasn’t taking that voluntarily.

Blue Chantal

The service rep and I were still standing around by the two cars when another guy walked up. He asked me which car I had chosen and explained that he was taking whichever was left. I spoke up for the Hyundai. But then I asked if he had a preference. I was more curious than anything. The service rep definitely preferred the Ford, so I wondered what this other guy would go for.

He said he didn’t care; he was in town for a funeral. I think it was his grandmother’s funeral. Ugh. At that point I would have let him have whatever he wanted. If I’d been one of the sales reps, I would have set him up with something higher end. But I didn’t have that power, and he really didn’t seem to care. So he took the Nissan, and I took the Hyundai, Chantal’s blue twin.

And, ah, I loved it. There were no remote controls, to be sure, but I knew how to turn on the headlights, and if I’d wanted to, I could have swerved all over an empty road while holding an open bottle of soda without spilling a drop. In a city that appreciates cars, I appreciated finding the closest thing possible to my own car. So here’s to Chantal and her blue Indianapolis twin.

Forget the marathon medal, I'm just happy I didn't get stuck with the Grinch-mobile!