My ‘79 Subaru Brat holds a special place in my heart. I fell in love the day I first saw her in a Florida dealership—the cutest little truck, compact and sleek, gleaming white, fresh off the assembly line. A reliable vehicle, the salesman said. My husband preferred driving his ’69 Mustang, so I knew I’d rarely have to share. The Brat was all mine. I drove her everywhere for six years, and she never gave me trouble. Except once, not long after I first got behind the wheel…
Hot. So hot. It was a scorching summer afternoon and I was stopped at a traffic light, sweating in my seat. Air-conditioning hadn’t come standard on the Brat, and to save some money, I’d decided against adding it. I’d rolled my windows down, and as long as we were moving, the breeze was enough. But the longer I stood still? Come on, I thought, staring at the red light. Change!
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Finally the light flicked to green. I hit the gas and shifted the truck into first gear, anxious to get to prime airflow speed. Accelerating toward the intersection, I put the clutch to the floor and tried to shift into second. Suddenly, the truck shuddered and slowed. Strange. Switching to second gear was simple. I had the movement committed to muscle memory. I tried shifting again. Another terrible sound.
Had the car salesman sold me a lemon? Why were we stalling out? The heat? The Brat crept forward slowly. Cars behind me honked their horns. I glanced down and tried shifting again. Nothing. Brat, the name should have tipped me off.
A breeze blew through the windows. I glanced up. A flash of metal caught my eye. An old sedan barreled up the cross-street toward me… and wasn’t slowing. It blazed through the red light, just inches in front of my Brat. Right where I would have been, if I’d been in second gear.
I hit the gas and drove on, shaken, but unscathed. This time, the truck shifted into second smoothly. The way she did for years, accident-free. More reliable than any salesman could have known.
