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I Love Her, but She May Be Too Expensive

ISAAC: Our column this week touches on an issue that's even more personal than usual: when to let go, even though love still burns brightly.

It's a difficult decision to make. My love has let me down at times, but we've had many great memories together. I've invested so much time, money and effort into the relationship that it would be a painful loss to break it off now.

Ellen Weinstein

I'm talking, of course, about my car.

A year and a half ago, a family friend sold me, for a dollar, something I didn't need, but couldn't refuse: a shiny black 1991 Saab 900 Turbo convertible that he no longer had use for.

More than 13,000 miles and 21 states later -- and after weeks of living out of it, an infestation of Africanized (killer) bees, bizarre engine noises on remote roads, dozens of long drives through the night and one blown tire -- we've had enough adventures together that I feel like we're more than just old friends.

But I know that at some point you have to let go.

So is it time to recover some of the money I dumped into it and move on with my life?

While in many ways the car has been an unnecessary luxury, it also has opened up more opportunities for me than just the added mobility and the ability to travel the country on a whim.

I've learned the responsibilities that come along with being responsible for a piece of machinery. There are some lessons that you can know, but can only really learn by experience. I knew when I signed the registration papers that I was getting myself into a serious financial commitment. But it took a year of insurance payments, gas bills and visits to the mechanic to hammer home what I already knew -- cars are financial black holes.

And all the money I spend on it is money that can't go toward necessary expenses. According to my college agreement with my parents, I pay the equivalent of a federal Stafford loan each year, and they will cover the rest. This year that amounts to $6,500 -- a number that will likely increase in the coming years.

After I bought the car, over a year ago, a Saab-enthusiast reader wrote in to help me justify the purchase: "Enjoy it, my friend," he wrote. "If it costs you a little, try not to get too caught up in looking at those costs as money lost. Think of it as an investment in your future memories."

The Saab has paid me back already in priceless memories. But it's starting to look like I'll be having memories of scrambling to pay off college debt for years if I keep funding the car.

While I'm not ready to write a Craigslist ad quite yet, I have the feeling that day isn't too far off.

STEVE: I could have warned Isaac that his Saab would bring heartache.

Wait: I did warn him.

"It's probably not a good idea to buy a car your freshman year," I told him in the late spring of his last high-school year. "A car will become a money pit, and you'll have to sell it." Dozens of readers, too, wrote in to warn Isaac that cars and college often don't mix. "Buy a bicycle," wrote one.

But I'm afraid my warning was half-hearted. Part of me wanted him to buy that Saab ragtop, and not just because it was a classy set of wheels: I saw it as a magic carpet.

One thing I wish for my sons in their youth -- along with health, happiness and a generous spirit toward others -- is that they find adventures even better than the ones I stumbled upon at their ages. And money, spent wisely, can be a tool to help find adventures.

It's clear his Saab has been a well-bought tool for adventure. I felt that way when he told tales last summer of driving with the top down through Zion Canyon, of sharing a campground with Swiss travelers, of driving up a long dirt road to visit a Mormon family living in Utah cave homes and of the fellowship of locals.

And in July, when I visited Isaac in Portland and he drove me around with the top down on a gloriously sunny Oregon afternoon, it was clear to me that fate had ordained Isaac to own this car.

But I also know that sinking feeling that a vehicular relationship has run its course.

I've been there. I had to break up, after hanging on too long, with my gold '72 Honda CB750 in my junior college year. My adventures on it were mostly in the Midwest, but they included a long first date with my future wife one autumn afternoon. I saw that I couldn't keep the bike and still pay tuition, but I put off the inevitable. Then, after the Indiana leaves had fallen and my account balance had dropped to near zero, I sold it to a friend a state away and never saw it again.

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I fancy myself as not much of a materialist, so it's embarrassing to admit that I still think about that bike, can still hear its throaty rumble, still wonder where it is now. I can hear my old '65 BSA, too, and my '71 BMW boxer twin, which took me west to the Rockies and east to the Atlantic and south to Florida with Karen riding pillion.

None of my motorcycles made any more practical sense than Isaac's Saab. They absorbed precious dollars and were useless in winter. But I felt pain when the relationships clearly had to end.

Parting with stuff of sentimental value can be wrenching. It's harder still to part with a magic carpet that has brought independence and adventure and wind blowing through your hair (and, let's admit it, a few envious stares). Even when it's sucking your wallet dry. But you have to move on.

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