Why I Loved My 1992 Pontiac Grand Am Coupe
My '87 Nissan Maxima, nicknamed "Battle Cat," had finally succumbed to her war wounds. I was in a bad accident in 2000, but Battle Cat's transmission lasted a year afterwards before it died on me. For a year after that, I spent hours on the bus every day, migrating between school, work, and home. I was in my junior year in college; there was no possible way I could afford a car payment because the majority of my income was applied to rent and utilities. My best bet was to scour the weekly recyclers for a "bucket" that I could buy for $2,000 or less. Then one day I came across an advertisement from Top Star Auto Sales that a Black 1992 Pontiac Grand Am coupe was on sale for $1,250.
On Saturday my friend Sal and I went to the dealership to take a look at this car. I had assumed it would be coming apart at the seams, but to my surprise the car was in good shape. The interior was intact; I saw no scratches in the paint; the engine was a 3.3-liter V-6—but there was a catch. The car had over 185,000 miles on it. After a test drive and a quick inspection of the engine I had made my decision. I was going to purchase the vehicle, high mileage, no warranty and all. I figured by the time this car gave out on me I would be out of school and would have an income that could support a car payment. I was proud of myself at that moment because this was the first car that I purchased completely on my own. There was no input from my parents on what car I should purchase, no financial help, no help with the negotiations. After paying the salesman in cash, I drove the Grand Am off into the sunset.
You never appreciate the feeling of being behind the wheel until it is taken away from you. That is why enjoyed letting that 3.3-liter V-6 engine roar. The Grand Am was eventually dubbed "Black Cat" because it was sleek and powerful yet graceful. I drove that car everywhere. The majority of the time I was driving back and forth from Northridge to my home town of Bakersfield. Within the trip there is a mountain pass with steep grade on Interstate 5, called the Grapevine, and Black Cat handled it as though it were the flat prairie lands of Kansas. Since it was a coupe, Black Cat gave me the perfect excuse not to transport my friends around. Everything was going great until the day the alternator went out. I took it to one of those chain repair garages. While they took care of the alternator they screwed up the water pump and the coolant reservoir.
The company ducked their responsibilities and left me with $1,500 worth of repairs. There was no way I could justify pouring that much money into car that was rapidly approaching the 210,000 mile mark. That was when the Black Cat and I had to part ways—but I loved that car and still compare the feeling I got from driving Black Cat to any other vehicle I drive today.
