So long, Volkswagen Bug
Volkswagen recently announced that it is completely ending the production of its iconic car, the Beetle. It led a rich life for 80 years. Despite its nefarious origins with the Nazis, this automobile shaped like a charming insect wound up making friends with all types of human beings. Indeed, the Beetle was engaged in diversity long before the term “diversity” became a cliche and academic mantra.
It was driven by college students low on cash, workers who liked how tough this little car was, amateur mechanics who could easily repair a Beetle motor (it resembled a lawn mower), miners who could only rely on mules and Beetles to scale a mountain, among so many others.
It also was ahead of its time. The Beetle was the first successful environmentalist car, getting over 30 miles to a gallon and not polluting the air with air conditioning chemicals (though it did have a small heat vent). With gas at 35 cents to a gallon, most Americans in those days drove large gas guzzlers, hence the term road hogs. People who drove Beetles were the antithesis of road hogs. With a Zen-like simplistic spirit, they took up as little space as possible. Look at old 1960s TV shows and movies, and the only small cars you see in the background are Beetles. They paved the way for small and more efficient cars from Toyota and Honda.
Adding to its luster was the Beetle’s centrality to a rapidly growing car culture. There have been many popular songs about the car, such as “Little Deuce Coupe” by the Beach Boys, “Little Red Corvette” by Prince, “Drive My Car” by a most famous group that was originally named The Silver Beetles. The music highlighted the erotic and dangerous fascination with the automobile’s emergence in everyday life, particularly when offering an unexpected freedom and privacy for teenagers. Contrast that with today. There are no popular songs about the joys of driving a large SUV on the beltway or riding an Uber to a nightclub.
Driving the Beetle is pure, unadulterated fun. It’s smooth and zippy. But it feels a little cheaper than its sticker price ($25,000 as tested). You’ll notice this mainly in the tinny feel of the doors and the poorly filtered road noise. Braking in the Beetle is quick and responsive, without crossing that nasty line into being harsh or grabby.
The Beetle had distinct features. Partying college kids would see how many of their buddies could fit inside a Beetle. Wilt Chamberlain, the 7-foot, 1-inch tall basketball star, was part of an ad to testify that even he could fit in its driver’s seat. Scholars soon began studying the social status of cars. They noticed how many poor people would drive Cadillacs they could ill afford, while rich people drove Beetles even though they could afford a Rolls Royce. It turned out to be the difference between conspicuous and inconspicuous consumption. Heady stuff anchored to such an innocuous machine as the Beetle.
There was also the experience being in a Beetle. Your face is about a foot from the flat windshield. With the motor in the back and using a clutch gear shift, you had good traction in snow, but no protection from the tiny front. Seat belts might work, but don’t count on it. And there was that distinct noise a running Beetle made. Once I stupidly drove 20 hours straight from Missouri to Baltimore. My ears were ringing for the next two days. For Beetle owners, though, these quirks were not inconveniences—just routine aspects of daily life.
Having a Beetle was similar to walking a dog. People would see you and ask about it, only to soon reminisce about the time they or a friend drove a “Bug.” It always brings a smile or two to recall a crazy road trip, or how the floors were rusting out but you can still drive to your destination.
In Baltimore’s Hampden neighborhood, there is a blue, rusty Beetle, maybe a 1967 model I’ve seen a woman drive on occasion. One day I hope to see her exiting the blue Bug and praise her resilience. I’d like to ask how she has kept driving this car for so many years. She must have many stories about staying true to this machine. And it would give me a chance to reminisce about my own Beetle.
Alexander E. Hooke is a professor of philosophy at Stevenson University. He wrote this column for The Baltimore Sun.