Nichelle Engles
My brand new 1990 Honda Civic with manual shifting was fondly dubbed Cricket after the first time I drove it. It got that name, not because of its continual ability to hop across intersections (especially when by brother drove it) but rather because it was like the Noisy Cricket out of Men in Black or Jiminy Cricket in Pinocchio.
When I got my car, there was only one slight problem with the situation. It was in New Mexico and I had to get it back to Michigan where I go to school. For the entire summer, I drove my car to and from work day after ceaseless day during rush hour traffic. Together we made it through the stop and go moments with more grace than would be expected from a new stick shift driver and a persnickety car. When my summer finally ended, I loaded her up to head to college.
My father and I successfully crammed two extra large suitcases, four large boxes, a styrofoam cooler, a stuffed yellow duffle bag, and a television in the back of Cricket. This mess was topped by my father’s small, yellow day bag with his clothes.
The first part of the trip involved driving the three hour detour down to Albuquerque to drop my mother’s 2005 Mini Cooper convertible with a supercharge off at the dealership (do you not see the difference in the quality of the cars?). The trip to Albuquerque was uneventful, but once we reached there, we wandered through back roads and construction sites for about a half hour until we got to the dealership. Through this all, Cricket ran like the little champ that she is.
Cricket and we successfully made it through our unplanned detour around the back roads of Albuquerque and headed on through the rest of New Mexico’s rolling hills, topless plateaus, and little gullies. We then hit the flat, uneventful, boring Texas Panhandle. There was nothing but grass, a few windswept trees, and some homesteads for about 300 miles. From there, we cruised through Oklahoma, which is about as beautiful as the Texas Panhandle. And through it all, Cricket was a happy little car despite the miles that we crammed on her. At the end of the day, we reached the Missouri state line and settled in a little town for the night.
The next day, Cricket decided she did not like the lush, green rolling hills of Missouri, so she threw a temper tantrum. Every so often as my father or I was cruising at about 75 to 85 mph with the rpms at about 3.5, Cricket would hiccup. This resulted from the rpms dropping from 3.5 to 0 and then jumping back up to 3.5. The side effect was a very unpleasant jolt and a backfire from the muffler. The jolt was similar to what the car makes when a poor stick shifter is driving and cannot shift between first and second gears. This jolting and backfiring continued all the way to Rolla, Missouri.
I never realized what a pretty little town Rolla, Missouri is and I do not ever want to see or hear of it again. My father and I spent half a day in the sweltering Missouri weather courtesy of Cricket’s hiccups (the backfiring stopped once the muffler was replaced). And the results of having two different mechanics look at her was that, well, nothing was really wrong with her at all from what they could see.
Therefore, in spite of Cricket’s unwillingness to proceed another mile (because as soon as we hit the highway the hiccups started again) we drove onward. About every two hours Cricket would be given a rest and we would take a bathroom or food break. After a while, the jerks were a customary part of driving and we made it to Indianapolis by 10:00 PM. With about five hours left of driving, my father and I decided to make a final push for Michigan to finish off our last 1,000 miles.
Cricket protested, jumped, squealed, and in general just complained the whole rest of the trip. But she made it in one piece, all the way to the mechanics. There, once again, they could not determine the cause of her ailment. I have just racked it up to the fact that I have an ornery car.
Even now, once in a while she just will not work. After practice one day, she refused to start. She started just fine in the morning, but when there was an audience of two teammates of mine, she would not start. After about five minutes of trying to start her, with my teammates laughing, and me being thoroughly embarrassed, she finally started and ran fine.
In the same way, on the way to church at 8:20 in the morning, she began to jerk and jump (not due to bad shifting, but her rpms). She made it to church, sat for an hour and a half, and then did not act up for the rest of the day. Ornery and definitely not a morning car. That is what my loyal, three toned, 1990 Honda Civic dubbed Cricket is classified as by all who know of her exploits. But she still runs, so long may she run, and may she never leave me stranded.
