We’re Keeping Our Cars Longer. At Least It Seems Longer

We’ve stopped buying new autos automatically

By Ed Goldman

The auto industry is abuzz, bereft and altogether bummed to learn that people are keeping their cars longer because of economic anxiety. Drivers figure they still have a few more years to pilot their Priuses into utility poles and over parking logs, merge into fast lanes while doing 45 miles per hour and signal to make turns after the light has changed.

But what manufacturers are whining about is a relatively minor disruption: owners are hanging onto their wheels for an average of only three years or so. To deploy some vehicular vernacular, this is not a big honkin’ deal. If one of the financial wizards included me in the equation, the grading curve would look like the EEG read-out of someone in the throes of morphing into monsters like Mister Hyde, the Wolfman or a whole-life insurance salesman.

I’ve owned my car since 2002—and have neither plans to buy nor a resident usury to help me buy a new car anytime soon.

It’s not that my car, a Mercedes 320, is in anything near cherry condition. 

It has a couple of dents in the passenger side that are barely visible if you quickly turn away and close your eyes. The steering wheel cover looks like a doily that repeatedly enraged a cat. The familiar Mercedes logo on the back of the car was savaged in a very inept thief’s attempt to liberate the contents of my trunk, and now resembles the international Olympics logo less than a Venn diagram someone drew while drunk.  

In addition,  my cup holders were vandalized (for real) some years ago, leaving them look like remnants of a final cocktail party in Pompeii—either the glassware or the star-crossed attendees.

But I love it. Unlike today’s SUVs, which sit high on the road, feature TV monitors and still can’t be parallel-parked on a one-way street by at least 70 percent of the population, the undercarriage of my 320 scrapes almost every driveway entrance in well-to-do neighborhoods, occasionally causing sparks I personally find festive. 

I operate the car’s sideview mirror, controlled by a mini-motor it would cost me more than $400 to replace at the dealership, by hand, which I firmly believe is helping train one of my thumbs to be more dexterous when texting. 

One of my rear windows seems delighted to swiftly slide downward at the touch of a button but somewhat recalcitrant to do a return ascent until I slide out of the car onto the gravel (I mentioned it’s built low to the ground, didn’t I?), slide a spatula covered in half-chewed Trident sugarless gum down the window shaft and, just a few tortured yanks and silent prayers later, ka-thunk its way back into position. 

If you think the aforementioned are of dubious value, here’s one the drivers of new-ish cars might appreciate. While I have the automotive knowhow of an alpaca, I know my car. When an upselling mechanic tells me my brakes are “about to go” and need new shoes, socks and garter belts, I usually know better—because I’ve driven the car when the brakes were low and can feel the difference.