I never thought I’d see this day come. David Tracy, the person I know with the most visceral contempt for comfort, refinement — hell — even a level of cleanliness on par with your average raccoon, has gone Hollywood. Did you read his last article,”Why I Bought My Currently-Broken BMW i3: LA Was Making Me Fall Out Of Love With My Old Cars“? He’s sold out! I wish there were another explanation, but I can’t think of one. Yes, the man who once slept and lived in a filthy, rusty metal cube on wheels optimistically called a “Postal Jeep” for days on end to the point where the authorities got involved — this same man has now used the sacred megaphone of The Autopian to tell the world that he’s too fancy for that mess now that he’s an Angeleno, and needs to drive a less than a decade old BMW, like a King or a sultan or a Pope or something like that. Well, Prince David, I’d just like to remind you that I lived in LA for nearly 20 years, and during that time I daily drove three cars, the newest ones of which were from 1973. So this is where I get to call you a candy-ass, because it’s fun.
Part of why this is so fun is that this is the David Tracy we’re talking about here, a man whose blood type is 10W-30 and whose pores I believe secretes grime when he’s hot, not sweat. This is a man who will happily offer you a fistful of gravel as a snack because they’re cheaper than mixed nuts, or, if he does offer you mixed nuts, be wary, because they’re the screw-on-a-bolt kind that he scraped off his garage floor. This is a guy who could fall asleep in a pile of broken glass and Doritos, and then wake up and complain the Doritos were stale. A beast. He’s a beast who wears pants and cares too much about grammar.
Well, he was a beast. Now he lives in LA in a clean apartment and spends time with a stylish woman and goes to day spas and uses a fork and pees indoors and, yes, has decided that driving half-a-century old deathtraps is no longer what he wants to do. Well lah-dee-fucking-dah. Someone moves to dreamland and all of a sudden decides that discomfort and the near-constant threat of painful, rusty death aren’t appealing anymore. I may be an old, tiny, funny-looking, and, let’s be honest, stupid man, but I never gave up driving slow, smelly, dangerous cars during my entire Los Angeles Experience.
I lived in LA from the late-ish 1990s to 2014, and during that entire period of my life my daily drivers were one of these three cars: a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle, a 1968 Volvo 1800S, and a 1973 Reliant Scimitar. They were all deathtraps, all manual transmissions, none could come close to modern car conveniences (hell, the 1800S had a manual choke), and I loved driving them all.
David gives three reasons in his guilty admission of vehicular capitulation, which he uses as subheads in his article: “LA’s Roads Will Chew You Up And Spit You Out,” “Parking Ain’t Easy,” and “Gas Prices Are Tough.” Okay, I’ll give him the last one, but the other two? Come on! Grow a pair of your preferred genitalia, man.
David’s arguments in the part about LA’s roads “chewing and spitting” is a sort of catchall about the poor condition of LA’s roads, the often strange road patterns and narrow roads of the city, the intense and painful traffic, and the weird and often carelessly aggressive driving behaviors of tightly-wound Angelenos doing dangerous things in cars are absolutely true. But I also know these travails can be braved from behind the wheel of an archaic deathtrap, because I did it. For years and years.
Was it easy inching along in 2.63 mph traffic on the 5 in the middle of summer, in a Beetle with no air conditioning, the calf on my clutch leg three times the size of my other leg from the non-trivial effort of pushing that heavy, spring-loaded, cable-operated near-agricultural-grade clutch in and out? Fuck no! And was it not harrowing as all hell when the road would open up and I’d be doing a buzzy 70 mph, knowing that if that idiot in the BMW weaving between lanes so much as taps me at these speeds I’m going to end up looking like something that belongs inside a burrito? Yes, it was often terrifying.
Sure, my Reliant Scimitar offered more speed, but it was a strange RHD car that more than once deposited its muffler on the road, and its fiberglass body was not exactly an upgrade in safety, if we’re honest. The P1800 was lovely and fun to drive, but its defogger worked about as well as a horny gnome panting against the windshield glass, and it was only about the height of the wheels of most of the huge-ass SUVs that would weave right next to you out of their lanes as their drivers fished in bags for ketamine pills or whatever.
None of them were easy! But I used them all, regularly, and loved it! I took my Beetle to trips out in the desert, I carried things on the roof rack that were far too large, with some significant failures, and I changed fan belts on the shoulder of the 405, an absolutely terrifying and stupid thing to do, as trucks whizzed by inches from my back, every single time causing a small, terrified squirt of urine to leap to freedom in my pants.
I remember I bought the 1800S initially to be the car for my girlfriend at the time, and she found it such a pain to deal with she left it in the middle of an intersection on Wilshire Boulevard one day, forcing me to scramble out there and get it going and out of the way before the cops impounded it. She ended up getting a new Civic because the demands of a beautiful old car from the late 1960s were too much for her. Sound familiar, David?
As far as parking goes, okay, the Beetle is pretty small, but the Volvo had no power steering, making parallel parking a genuine chore, and the Scimitar, well, maybe that one was fine, too. So I can’t gripe about that.
Were any of these old cars good in the rainy season in LA? Hell no. The Beetle has two speed wipers – really slow, and still not fast enough, and if the Volvo’s defogger was the panting breath of a horny gnome, this gnome wasn’t even aroused. LA panics in any sort of rain, and it’s not a great time to be in a literal deathtrap. I get that David’s Mustang is a mess in rain as well, but, dude, just keep a rag under your seat! That’s how you keep seeing out the windshield! Have you turned you back on rags, too, David? Do you only use fresh slices of Nova Scotia salmon to wipe your nose and other valuables now? Jeezis.
It’s not like I didn’t have commutes, either, because I sure as hell did, commutes that make David’s little Valley-contained jaunts from his place to Galpin seem like a joke. Yes, David, a joke, a silly little joke, compared to me hauling my Eastside/Los Feliz ass all the way across town to Culver City or Westwood, which I had to do daily for years. I had commutes into the Valley, to Midwilshire, to downtown, to Santa Monica, hell, often to Irvine or other godless places in Orange County, I did all of these, often, in cramped little underpowered cars from the era when people were still worried about Soviets but Walkmen weren’t even thought of yet and Pong was bleeding edge tech.
Hell, I took my child, my only son Otto, all over LA in the Beetle! A human child! In Los Angeles, in an old car! And he loved it! The heat, the noise, the excitement of possible breakdowns, the adventure of it all!
Yes, David, a child thrived in LA in an old, archaic car. Sure, he had no choice, and to many, this is terrible parenting, but still. My point, whatever it is, stands.
So, yes, sweet, sweet David, as much as I adore you – which I absolutely do– I’m going to relish this rare, beautiful moment where I get to call you a candy-ass. A candy-ass who left Detroit winters in creaky Plymouth Valiants and J10 pickups and other shitboxes, came to LA and not even, what three months (!?) into his new Los Angeles life abandons all of his old car principles, and has been seduced by the considerable and enticing comfort and safety of a 2014 BMW i3.
As you drive that thing, David, gliding along in your cushy electrical carriage, the hum of the electric motor drowned out by the languid vocals of Enya or Enigma or whatever, drinking electrolyte water from one of those water bottles with a big crystal inside it you probably got from Goop or something, just remember that some of us happily trundled around LA in old-ass, noisy, clunky, uncomfortable shitboxes, and did so happily.
[Editor’s Note: The truth is, I took ownership of my free 1959 Nash Metropolitan specifically so I could daily-drive it in LA, so I was willing to drive an old junker when I first go here.
My J10 and Mustang are too valuable for me to want to daily around the city (So convenient, JT, that you forgot to mention that your car literally got stolen in LA! And that thing wasn’t even valuable — none of your cars were back when you drove them!), one is technically not SMOG legal, they both suck gas like you wouldn’t believe, the other is my brother’s (I want it well-preserved). The rest of my fleet is broken.
Fixing the Nash is going to take a while, and though I could just drive the big, thirsty J10 for now, I’m curious about EVs! I run a car website in 2023 and have no EV experience; that’s not ideal! Also, the i3 is a fascinating carbon-fiber car that I can top up in my apartment’s parking garage. Have I gone soft for buying a fascinating machine that runs on a different fuel source? I don’t know. Even if I have gone soft, I deserve it — have you seen the shit I’ve done. Trenchfoot! Bathing in the freezing Baltic Sea! Leave me alone.
Who knows, maybe the i3 will bore me like the last sensible car I bought did and I’ll be back to my old ways. We’ll see. But even if not, I’ve built up more shitbox cred than I need to get away with this, Torch. -DT].
I was happy because I genuinely loved each of those cars, and despite the discomfort and inconvenience of it all, LA is a city that appreciates old and weird and interesting cars, and there’s so much joy and fulfillment that comes with the bit of extra effort. Sure, David will still have a fleet of old, interesting cars to trot out, and everyone will be delighted and fawn over them and all that, but when I look deep into David’s eyes, perhaps during one of our business-embraces at staff meetings, I’ll know that he’s taking the easy way out.
Well, maybe driving those things wasn’t always happy, but it sure is fun to gloat about it now, in hindsight. So there.
Candy-ass.
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Heh,when David’s original article complained about the “poorly gridded” city streets in LA I did look at the medieval town center I have to drive through when I want to go shopping like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ for a second, ngl.
Fun thing about NYC, most of the metropolitan area is on a reasonably easy to comprehend grid systems (though confusing if you’ve never been there, lot of weirdness but still a grid). Then there’s Greenwich Village, where all the streets are based on the actual village that was there and if you don’t know your way around it’s like the twisty little passages in Zork.
In six months he’ll be totally dressed in loud Ferrari garb, holding some boogie drink in one hand pinky out, and talking loudly to Fancy Kristen on the phone with the other. Goodbye David, hello Fancy David.
ya know, I didn’t think about this when I first read it, so this comment will probably get lost in the ether, but I think David going soft means it’s time to revive articles that gave me (and im sure many others) the will to live. David needs to take over for the gone, but never forgotten ‘Fancy Kristen’ ethos with his new bougee kicks and LA lifestyle, he’s clearly the man for the job. Or just give Kristen anything she wants to poach her. idunno, js
Well, I think when you get a small taste of a comfortable, dependable car, you tend to realize what you’ve been missing out on all these years. I love my old cars, but the peace of mind and comfort of a modern car is hard to beat on a daily commute. Also, it’s called getting old.
Between the horny gnomes and terrified squirts of urine, this was an absolute masterpiece of hilarious literary prowess. Well done.
Heavy clutch on a normal beetle? I had 2 beetles (’72 and ’57 with a bigger engine) and the clutches were totally light.
Jello picnic had Fancy Kristen, why can’t the Autopian have Fancy David?
This article right here is why you guys need to bring back the podcast. This is just screaming for a “Spill the Tea” segment!
I daily drove a 1955 Mercury Monterey in Silicon Valley for two years. It was SUPER sketchy. Because compared to all of the modern cars it handles like a big lumbering boat. The brakes also are not nearly as responsive. People would sometimes slam on the brakes and my car, not having ABS would simply skid. I had too many close calls. And with these cars they have no real protection for the driver. If you are in a wreck you’re probably going to get badly injured. Its more or less a weekend car now and resides in the small town I live in.
My main reasoning for not driving my old car daily when I had a daily commute (I work from home now) is that other people don’t know how to drive and I don’t want to A.) die and/or B.) have my old car be torn up.
Seeing highway crashes and modern crash tests just clicks in your head at some point, I guess. I think that point for me was when I had kids. Airbags and crumple zones and ABS just make me feel better when I’m ferrying them around.
I mean he did have two only 1/4 century old cars that could have really covered all his issues.
The Cheap Olds would have been fine on gas, and the Tracker with offroad suspension would have made a fine back up vehicle to drive while the olds was being repaired, because you know David is too Bougie to actually wrench on his own vehicles now. Both of these vehicles were small, got acceptable fuel economy and did not matter one bit if they got a fender ding or played a little rubbing is racing on the 10.
But I feel like the biggest issue would have been getting them to pass smog, so I get it, drive what the locals drive most of the time.
Want a real death trap drop top for the LA roads? Get an old Geo Metro convertible. Any accident in one of those will turn you into a smashburger, guaranteed. But hey, they’re fun as hell.
laughed out loud multiple times on this one. bravo
… I’m too FloridaMan to understand half this article.
The 110? The 405? Where’s the Valley? Where’s Culver City? Was this commute similar to getting across Orlando on I-4 during rush hour?
You mean like how those of us on the east coast don’t say “the” in front of highway numbers? 😉
Hey, most of the west coast, too! That’s just an L.A. thing. I grew up in San Diego, where you’d take Highway 8 to 805 if you want to take Highway 5 north to L.A. and it took me years after moving to L.A. to get comfortable using “the” in front of freeway names and numbers as if they were job titles instead of roads.
Did you really have to drag grammar into this? Low, man, low.
I’d love to read that, honestly, but I’m not a member :'( I can’t really justify $10 a month; half that, sure, but it’s a bit steep.
I don’t get people who call LA (or anywhere in California) road pavement “bad”. Compared to Michigan or Illinois, almost every road in Cali is a pool table.
“Now he lives in LA in a clean apartment and spends time with a stylish woman”
Congrats David!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHXjcdNIN-Q
Are the cracks showing? Here’s how I see David and Torch as the Autopian grows, and David goes “Hollywood.”
https://youtu.be/5kAYYGZ8nC8
Wait…
David Tracy is spending time with a “stylish woman”?
Way to go, DT!!
It’s probably none of our business, so I’m not going to ask about her, but I do recall some of your reasoning for all the recent changes in your life were of the personal nature, so I, for one, am glad to see the man, the myth, the legend is… INVOLVED.
Or is entangled the preferred LA term?
Regardless, good on ya, Dave!
I thought this was definitely burying the lead, so to speak…. just casually tossing that in there like no one would notice.
Perhaps he caught the eye of some movie star who was intrigued about what kind of rugged individual would drive a J10 in LA.
In fairness to DT, you get to a certain age, and something clicks.
I remember one morning in 1987 when my dad (48 at the time) said to me “I just don’t feel like shifting gears today. You drive the 914, and I’ll take the Olds….”
I’ve been known to load down a motorcycle with dry cleaning, bottles to be returned, getting some groceries, and running my errands, just for the fun of it. But I’ll be honest, laziness has been winning out a lot recently…
To be fair, Torch then moved from LA to NC’s Research Triangle, which in my experience is the epicenter of the candy-ass universe. It’s basically sloth-like southern culture mixed with former northeastern suburbanites who are too weak to handle winter.
This is accurate.
Yup. Cary is actually an acronym for “Containment Area for Relocated Yankees”.
Pfffft. I dailied a pair of shitty Ramblers from NoHo to Raleigh Studios every day in the early 90s. Both cars were manuals with painfully-stiff clutches, one had no power steering, and neither had power brakes nor AC. Was all I could afford then.
But gas was a lot cheaper then, and I had parking at both ends, so it wasn’t awful.
I can’t get the image of a horny little gnome with Jason’s face just humping a dashboard and breathing on the windshield. Since my mind was poisoned with this filth now yours is too. Damn you torch!
Ooooh ha ha ha ha ha
Little gnome, just airhumping away while staring at the sexy oyster mascot on the van next to them in traffic.
THANK YOU, TORCH!
I was gonna give DT my own ration of shit for this. I have dailied in Los Angeles a 1962 Buick Skylark, a 1981 Honda Civic, a 1968 F250, and a 1970 Cougar, and they all survived just fine! (Well, the Cougar got hit a couple times, but I fixed it and still have it, so there.) And the tough commute DT describes? Studio City to Galpin? Dude, don’t even bother with the freeways, just leave a few minutes early and enjoy the cruise down Ventura Blvd, hang a right onto Van Nuys Blvd (the Woodward of the Valley, though it sure doesn’t seem to have a cruising scene anymore), then take a left on Roscoe and you’re practically there. Take a lunch at Dr Hogly Wogly’s Tyler Texas BBQ whenever you get a chance. Once this goddamned rain finally dries up and goes away, you’ll find that your old iron will do ya just fine on the daily commute. You will never again need a winter beater, or snow tires. You’ll barely ever need a heater (the past three months notwithstanding; this weather is NOT typical), and you’re still young enough that you’ll survive most days without even air conditioning (though there will indeed be several weeks… er, months… when you’ll want to shelter in the climate-controlled confines of the BMW).
Only reason I don’t still daily my Cougar is because I’m mostly WFH, so most of my driving is ferrying the kids around, and my wife doesn’t want me driving them around in a 53-year-old convertible, though she herself spent her entire childhood being driven around L.A. in her mom’s ’65 Mustang convertible, and SHE’S still alive. (And her mom still owned the Mustang up until four or five years ago.)
But there’s much be said for having access to an inexpensive (possibly free) fuel source in your parking space, when gas is near $5 a gallon.
I only dailied two cars in LA, but one was a ’94 Wrangler (perfect except hobos started using it as a bedroom) and the other was an ’83 Tercel 4WD Wagon. Not as cool as Jason, but at least no one can call me candy ass.
This post made my mind go straight to a “The Californians” SNL skit.
This was as fun to read as that Volvo is gorgeous (very)! Also, I know I would likely hate a manual choke if I had to deal with it every day, but I definitely love the *idea* of a manual choke on a car…
I dealt with a manual choke on my second car: a 1977 (49-state non-catalyst) Honda Accord, as well as on my 1968 F250, and y’know? I didn’t mind it one bit. There were rare occasions when I forgot to un-choke the car after it had warmed up a bit and I briefly wondered why it was so sluggish and stinky, but I always remembered pretty quickly. There are certain obsolete idiosyncrasies like that (including stick shifts and manual windows and Brodie knobs and manually flipping day/night mirrors) that I’ll probably always enjoy, since they just add to the sense of control and involvement in the act of driving.
Used to have an MG with one, and I didn’t really mind it. One of my current bikes has one too.
Like you’re hinting, it very much becomes part of your start-up rhythm and you don’t even think about it. Like Donald Petersen better explains, I enjoy the tactile feel of another switch, esp. one that’s so directly connected to a noticeable operational change. On my Suzuki, it’s fun slowly backing it out for about 30 seconds to keep the rpms in the zone.
Having endured the era of crude, bang-bang “automatic” chokes, I will never understand (or agree with) this aversion to manual chokes. Life with them SO much better, particularly when traveling high in the mountains. Resorting to propping the choke open with a plastic comb after the engine floods as you try to start it in sub zero white-out conditions: that was just peachy.