What is your all time favorite automobile?
If you ever want to understand what makes someone tick, ask them about their first car. Mine wasn’t glamorous or fast, but it carried more freedom and memories than any fancy model ever could.
My all-time favorite automobile was the first one I ever owned—a maroon 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera. My dad found it sitting in a driveway after its elderly owner had passed away. It hadn’t moved in two years, and when he got a deal on it, we discovered why: the engine seals had failed, and gasoline had leaked into the oil. Once repaired, though, that stubborn old thing came to life—and stayed that way for years.
We called it the Red Chariot, and in time, the name fit perfectly. That car saw me through the end of high school, college, and most of grad school—about an hour’s drive away. I learned responsibility with every commute: how to check oil, how to handle Wisconsin winters, and how to hear when something “just didn’t sound right.” It carried me into adulthood one modest mile at a time.
The Red Chariot also became part of my love story. My boyfriend (now husband) and I drove it on little adventures whenever life allowed—from southeastern Wisconsin to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and all the way down to the Great Smoky Mountains. The brakes whined on long descents, the air conditioner worked only half the time, but we didn’t care. Those drives were full of laughter, music, and cheap motel coffee—memories that still smell faintly like gasoline and pine trees.
Then came The Event. A couple of weeks before, I noticed the steering wheel sitting just slightly off-center. I brushed it off as nothing serious. A week later, I parked by a friend’s house, grabbed my bags, and joined my parents and boyfriend for a long-planned road trip out west. We returned sunburned, travel-tired, and happy. I slid back into the driver’s seat of my car, turned the key, and immediately noticed it—an odd, “extra bouncy” feeling as the road hummed beneath me.
So I called my boyfriend, the trained mechanic, and asked, “How do I tell if a tire’s flat while I’m driving?”
Without missing a beat, he chuckled, “Easy. You pull over, get out, and if it’s flat—you’ll know.”
Classic him. I pulled over anyway, checked all four tires, and found them just fine. Satisfied, I merged back onto the highway and carried on.
The next day, he slid under the car to replace the shocks. That’s when he found it: rust had eaten clean through part of the frame, separating it from the rear axle. The Red Chariot had given everything it had. There was no fixing it this time.
We didn’t send it off with fanfare, just a quiet goodbye. Still, I couldn’t help running my hand along its faded maroon hood one last time. That car had carried me through some of the most formative years of my life—independence, love, responsibility, and grown-up laughter. It had been my safe space, my escape, and sometimes, my therapy room on wheels.
The Red Chariot was never showy or high-tech, but it was steady. It started most mornings, forgave my mistakes, and brought me home, every time. In a world obsessed with upgrades and flash, that simple dependability feels almost sacred.
I’ve driven newer cars since then, ones with sleeker paint and better gas mileage. But none have had quite the same heartbeat. Because some vehicles don’t just drive you to places—they carry you through chapters of your life.
So yes, my favorite car was an old, rusty Oldsmobile. It taught me that what matters isn’t horsepower or luxury—it’s heart, loyalty, and the quiet comfort of something that keeps showing up, mile after mile.
That little maroon Ciera might be gone, but in some small way, it’s still driving with me.
Your turn—what was your first car? Did it have a name, quirks, or memories that still make you smile? Share your first-car stories in the comments below. I’d love to hear them!
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