The Hond: What Can I Say, The 'a' Fell Off.
I just felt like buying it. I had saved up some money, and was tired of the Ventura. There wasn't anything wrong with the Ventura, I just wanted something different. I couldn't afford to be real picky, but I figured a thousand or two dollars would get me something four times as nice as the Pontiac. Chesty should have come up out of his grave to get me for buying a Japanese car but he didn't (yet).
It was a 1978 Honda Civic, 4 speed, with a tape deck. It was nimble and got good gas mileage. For some reason unknown to me, the company logo on the hatch had lost its last letter, so it affectionately became known as the 'Hond.' I think my older brother, Rick, tabbed it with that title.
One icy February when I was still a college student driving in from Waverly for class, I went out to start the 'Hond' so it would warm up and somewhat defrost itself so I wouldn't have to scrape. I couldn't get the door open. The key went in the lock, and the lock turned, but the dang door was frozen shut. I tried both sides and neither would open. Luckily, the hatch did.
I awkwardly climbed over the backseat, and between the two front seats and into position to start the car. It started just fine, but when I went to get out, I still couldn't get the doors open. Imagine me laying on my back and pushing both feet like a hip sled into the passenger door. Even from the inside, they wouldn't budge. I thought about going back out the hatch, but it doesn't open from the inside, so I started to roll down the window. It was frozen as well, but with some effort the window started to come down. Unfortunately, it brought the rubber trim down with it. Thinking I could fix that later, I escaped out the window.
I wanted to retain all the heat that I could in the car, so I tried to roll up the window as much as I could from the outside of the car and still get my arm out. The gap didn't satisfy me, so I decided to climb through the hatch again, just to roll up the window. I propped the hatch open with my shoe, so I could get back out through the hatch again. With that mission accomplished, I went back into the house thinking surely that ten minutes of warmth would thaw the doors as well as the windshield.
Ten minutes and breakfast later, I returned to the 'Hond' and tried the doors again. The freeze that took hold of those doors wasn't ready to let go yet, so I entered through the hatch again, knowing that by the time I drove to campus, the doors would surely be thawed. At least there was progress on the windshield, so I could see to drive without scraping.
About fifteen minutes later, I found a parking space on campus, and was ready to finally leave the frozen prison. Unfortunately the mobile ice-cube wasn't ready to let me go. That stuff was better than super gluef I rolled down the window again, this time without the rubber trim coming with it, and climbed out, much to the amusement of other students parking their cars.
Here on campus, I was really paranoid about stuff being stolen out of the 'Hond', in particular my most excellent cassette tape collection. I re-entered through the hatch, again propping it with my shoe, to the further amusement of the growing crowd of onlookers.
I rolled up the window and exited through the hatch with my book bag in tow.
Some smart-aleck bohunk asked me, "Uh, hey man, why don't you just use the doors?" I was in a fairly angry and exhausted state at the moment, but it didn't take a terribly extra long time to form a reply. As I walk to the driver's side door of the 'Hond' I began to say, "No shit, Sherlock, the friggin' doors are frozen solidf" but before I could get to the third word, I pulled the handle, and it opened, so I said, "No shit, that would have been a banner fuckin' idea. Why didn't I think of that?"
That wasn't the worst, or scariest thing that ever happened in the 'Hond'. One summer camp with Det 2, I convinced 'Bag' that I needed to travel POV (privately owned vehicle). There were only a certain number of people allowed to do that, and there were certainly other people more worthy than me, but remember, I was the 'chosen one'. Those old jarheads treated me like I was their own son. Anyway, once we were out in Colorado Springs, I had wheels, and this made summer camp a hell of a good deal more fun than sitting in 'tent city' for two weeks.
I was taking Brett Crossley for a drive up Pike's Peak. Brett is one of those guys that looks like a professional athlete. We came up with head size as the primary criteria for looking like a 'pro'. I actually hooked this guy up with my sister once. I think they had one or two dates. I had my hopes up pretty high, because Brett is handsome, and has a real career. I even had the term brother-in-law in mind, but it wasn't to be. My sister, Angie, was in a stage of her life where she wanted to find a husband, and Brett wasn't at the stage where he wanted to be one. He recognized that, and did the mature thing and ended it.
Brett was blonde, about 6'2", 250 lbs., and walked with his elbows stuck out like he was carrying something under each arm. Anytime he was out with us we used his physique to get us free drinks. People always believed it when we told them he was a punter for the Toronto Argonauts, or a hockey player for some other obscure Canadian team. Hell, one time I even convinced Dean Wysocki, that short-armed weather forecaster from the channel 8 news, that Brett was the first left-handed catcher in major league history, and just signed a contract with the Arizona Devil Rays (I know, slight lack of brain synapse there, but that's the way I told it to Dean). I'll never forget the exchange as long as I live. Dean says, "Hey, are you really Brett Crossley?" Brett replied, "Not for you I'm not."
Brett and I had dropped off Ted Christ and Roger Christiansen at the base of the peak before beginning our drive to the top. It was warm enough when we started that I was forming a good chunk of 'duck butter'. Ted and Roger wanted to hike up to the top and meet us. We were debating the climb, but somebody had to drive, and somebody had to keep the driver company. Once at the top, Brett and I took pictures, enjoyed the scenery, the gift shop, and the actual snow that was present there in the middle of May.
It took quite a while for Ted and Roger to find their way to the top. They rested, toured the gift shop, and then proclaimed that they were ready for the ride down. If I'd reminded them before they got in that the 'Hond' had little if no braking ability, and third gear was non-existent, they probably would have opted to walk. I left out that little tid-bit of information, and we began our descent.
A little over 900 pounds was probably a little too much for the 'Hond'. The momentum that built up gave me an opportunity to save on gas, but it didn't save what little brakes I had left. They heated up quickly and lost any stopping power they previously had. Even first gear didn't have enough stopping power for that damn hill. Roger wanted out, so when we reached the halfway point, at a mandatory brake check area, he bailed on us and went the rest of the way on foot. He figured he'd be the only one to live through it that way, and then he'd tell the story. The brake check monitor forced us to park it for an hour. We were still North (I mean 'up') of 'Santa's Workshop', a small amusement park that is settled on much flatter area about a quarter of the way up from the bottom.
We passed Roger shortly after our 'begin again' from the brake check. We just waved, not offering the ride we knew would be refused. We weren't completely giving in to the thought of dying. Brett proved that as we passed the amusement park with a humorous crack that today still doesn't make any sense to me. "When I die on this road, do I become Santa Claus?" Needless to say, when we got to the bottom, I had created more than a little duck butter. I still wonder what the collective before and after weight difference would have been.
"It would have made a better story if you'd have gotten laid."
Ben LeDuc