Some cars simply deserve a name more than others
Vehicles with personality need moniker to match, writes
Her name was Betsy.
Firm and sleek, if a little wide through the rear, Betsy got around. Strong as an ox — or two — Betsy could pull stumps from the ground, carry firewood and huge Christmas trees lashed to her back.
Betsy was our 1966 AMC Rambler wagon. It was the only car my father ever named, and I’ve always wondered why. Oh, he’d had a horse when he was growing up in Saskatchewan also named Betsy, which I guess makes me grateful he didn’t give the name to me or my sisters. It wasn’t until I started owning vehicles that I understood: Some cars require names.
I had a 1984 Dodge Mini Ram van, the year they debuted. It was a darling little cargo van which, at the time, was a big change from anything else on the road.
I’d previously been driving a full-sized van, so the mini seemed quite mini. The same year, my dad had a Dodge Ramcharger, a big cavernous beast we probably could have fit my van inside. My van was called the Ram Chicken. I put so many kilometres on that Ram Chicken, all on a little four-speed manual, the stick shift sticking out of the floor.
Long ago, I drove an old wreck of an LTD that sported duct tape spray-painted green so you couldn’t tell it was rusted. Sure. It was called the Urban Assault Vehicle, though the only thing it really assaulted was good taste.
In the years that followed,
I had a lot of cars but none had enough personality to deserve a special name — though I had a Laredo that ate so many brakes it earned a different kind of name. Before my Mom died, she had an Intrepid, which my then four-year-old son promptly called Interped. It stuck. These things usually do. My sister had a Suzuki Sidekick her daughter thought was a Psychic.
When my son’s girlfriend got her first car, she drove it twice and announced it was now called Doug. I looked at her blankly as she patiently explained, “Honda. Hon-doug.” Doug it was. The car she drives now is Lenny. Don’t ask me why, I have no idea. Another kid had a RAV4 named, of course, Ravioli.
Driving ’s Clayton Seams collects old cars — sorry, classic cars — like I collect boots. He carefully names every one, often curating suggestions from a large circle of friends. My favourite will always be the spectacular 1969 Chrysler Newport he named Peggy, taking his cue from Mad Men.
The moniker fit so well, when he sold Peggy, the buyer in Germany kept her name.
Cars of that era just seemed more nameable. They had more personality than the shapeless blobs now. One thing I have noticed, however, is that cars with standard transmissions are more likely to be named by their owners — totally anecdotal, unscientific noticing
— and I have always felt a closer connection to stick shift cars.
I talk to a standard more, the same way my Dad would pound on Betsy’s dash, begging her to start just once more in the darkest days of winter. She’d whine and churn slowly, eventually starting as he grinned, like she was a gold lantern and he just got his first wish.
That car crossed the finish line 10 years after its assembly line birth, every single last mile wrung from it. And he really did use her to rip stumps from the ground, totally unsafe chains wrapped around her frame. My Dad was a little crazy. After that Rambler, there was an orange AMC Matador wagon, but it never got called anything other than That Orange Monstrosity because it insulted my teenage sensibilities and I had to drive it. I didn’t stroke the dash and pray it would start; I called CAA and said look for the pumpkin in the parking lot.
As my son, Ayrton, was heading to school the other day, I asked him what car he was taking.
“Lanny,” he responded. I looked at him.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I named the Elantra, Lanny.”
We’ve had a Hyundai Elantra for more than two years, and he often takes the little standard manual over anything else.
He loves it. He explained he was waiting for the right name to come to him.
Do you name your cars?