A Tribute to an old friend of mine.

If you know what it's like to grow up with a certain object in your life, then you know how I feel about my old car. But to me, it's more than a car.
When I was a little kid, I'd rush to the garage door whenver I heard it open. I'd watch my dad back his shiny Red Peugeot into our small two-car garage. I never missed a chance to see, or hear the Peugeot. It symbolized being grown-up, it symbolized class.
Though it may now be far from what the general public would call "classy", it's still got plenty of class in my eyes.
Aside from what it symbolizes to me, this car is like part of the family to me. My dad was the original owner, who bought it back in the July of 1983, in sunny Burlingame, California. Whenever I drive through downtown Burlingame, I picture where the now defunct Burlingame Peugeot once stood and picture my dad writing the check for a brand new Peugeot in the showroom floor.

Now without getting too nostalgic, let me talk about what else the car meant to me. Oddly, from a very young age (maybe three or four years old), began my infatuation with Peugeot automobiles. Seeing one on the road was always a nice treat, and I'd always ask to tag along with my dad to the Peugeot repair shop all the way across the bay, in the Peninsula. I'd always point and look at the other Peugeot's, hoping to catch my dad's attention.

Now fast forward to age of fourteen..or maybe thirteen. My father finally let me get behind the wheel. He would take me to the old abandoned naval base across town, overlooking the San Francisco Skyline, where he'd attempt to teach me how to drive stick. The first few times, I failed as expected. Then one day while my parents were out, I grabbed the keys from the living room credenza and dashed to the car. It was at moment that I had done it. I had "tamed the lion." Suddenly, I felt as if I were in my dad's shoes, and that I had earned the Peugeot.
Before I knew it, I'm sixteen years old, freshly passed the license test with flying colors, and I'm out driving my red Peugeot.

There are no words fit to describe the feeling of driving down Highway 880 over the Bay Bridge: Windows down, Sunroof back, period-correct eighties tracks, while shifting into fifth gear in my new to me red Peugeot.

Throughout high school, I had my share of good and bad experiences with the Peugeot.
First of all, the Peugeot never let me down. In some cases, I let it down. Around the beginning of my Junior year, I was driving home from crew practice in the rainy evening. Coming off the Fruitvale Bridge around a gentle curve, I got a bit too ambitious, forgetting about my bald tires. Spun the car a few times, and slammed the rear into a cement light-column. That was the first, and I had it fixed after shelling out $500 dollars. Then roughly two months later over the Presidents Week holiday, me and a few friends were hanging out at the abandoned naval base, and I was messing around, drifting in a patch of mud. Let's just say that didn't end too well. Aka, lost control with a leaky steering rack, and slammed into a curb. Result: Bent frame rail, steering components, and took a chunk out of a wheel. With a little help of my old bank account, the car was fixed again, but it sat under a tree for over a year while I enjoyed my new Bmw.
Now this leads me to this past May. Driving home from the last practice of my high school rowing career, I was stopped at a red light where from out of nowhere, a guy (who I now think was DUI), slammed into the rear of my freshly washed and waxed Peugeot. Result this time: A completely smashed rear end, a mild concussion, and severe whiplash. But none of that mattered to me - that guy just destroyed my car.
So within minutes, paramedics show up alongside a slew of police cars and my parents.
The guy who hit me kept reassuring me that he would "take care" of my car, and have it fixed. But that proved to be a lie.
His insurance completely bailed on me, offering me a mere $1200, when the original estimate for the repair was over $6000. Bullshit. So I finally gathered up the time to call the guy who hit me last week. We agreed to meet up (yesterday), and I even took it upon myself to find the meeting place. What happened? He completely catted on me. Didn't respond my e-mail, and ignored my voicemails, as well as my calls. Thanks a lot sir!
Now I stand here. With a disfigured friend, having nothing to do with but look at it at its all-time low, parked under a shady tree. Hopefully things will get better from here, and I'm confident that they will. I'm not giving up without a fight, hopefully justice will prevail, and my car will be back to the beautiful shape that it was, a minute before it was wrecked.

So here it is, a small tribute that barely sums up my respect for a symbol that I grew up with, and hope to hold on to for many decades to come. The French sure built one hell of an automobile. Even while totalled, it's still a beautiful car.
Vive la France