Once in a while I come across a blog post that really entertains me, so today I share with you "an open letter to my Volvo."
My parents bought a Volvo in 1982, a medium blue 240 that was square in more ways than one. We named it Ovlov because that is how the logo on the window read when viewed from the back seat of the car. I remember long trips in that back seat, up and down I-81 in the summers. I learned to drive in it and did like the clutch on that one more than my dad's Chevy truck. But, it was so heavy and underpowered that it took at least a mile to get up to speed on the highway, which is pretty scary when you're 16. My dad seemed convinced that we'd be able to drive it for the rest of our lives, but I was rear-ended after school one day and the insurance company was less sentimental than Dad was.
Then we had another Volvo 240 named Goldie, aptly named for its color. My brother and I drove that one in college, and now that it's owned by people we don't know and we are too old to be grounded I will share this tidbit. One night on a country road in central Pennsylvania, Tom actually caught some air at the top of a hill. (For those of you who have not experienced this, you hear a screeching of the tires as they spin while barely touching the pavement, then nothing but the engine for a split second, then screeching tires regaining contact, then a huge bang when the weight of the car lands on shocks that were never intended for jumping.) Driving like that was our way of dealing with having a dorky car to drive, and to my knowledge we never did any permanent damage. Tom is now a pilot and drives an Audi.
This entry started when I read about say la vee's sickly Volvo XC90, which reinforces Dad's view that driving a Volvo was no longer worth the investment after they started making turbo engines, stopped making 240s, and other car manufacturers caught up in safety ratings. Of course that's around the time it actually became cool to drive a Volvo. Love those Swedes.