I never had a name for it. I would sometimes refer to it as the "Landspeeder," because it was bleached by the sun, too old to get a good trade in and drove like a sled. Lately, I'd been thinking of it as the Millennium Falcon, because I found myself quoting Han Solo, "Don't worry, she'll hold together. C'mon baby, hold together." But I never called it a proper name, so I can't say that Sally or Betsy or Carrie or Jenny is gone. But it is gone just the same.

A little over 12 years ago, the hand me down Chevy Citation I'd been driving since I'd had a license was officially dead. Three transmissions, a few radiators, and, finally, the engine was a goner. Through my parent's network of business friends, they found an '86 Camaro for sale. The previous owner had driven it for over 106,000 miles in four years and blown out the engine. When I first saw it, the car was going through final checks with the newly rebuilt engine.

A few days later, my mom and I took it for a test drive, let my uncle look at it (my dad was working out of town in Kansas at the time), and threw down $5000 in cash and trade.

It was a powerful car for a guy who'd always driven a wimpy semi-economy car that never really worked right all the time. I could punch the Camaro up to 30 mph (maximum speed limit in Clovis, New Mexico) in less than two seconds. And two days into my ownership, out in the middle of the country (about 15 miles from town), the starter went out.

The crisis was short. I towed the car in, got a new starter and didn't have to do anything except change the oil for about three years. Numerous trips between Clovis and Albuquerque ensued. I think the car knew the road just as well as I did. While the newfound power of a big engine made me speed a bit (I got about four tickets in the first few years--this is when highway speed was 55, by the way), I didn't go crazy. I didn't wreck it, and it held together.

On one trip back from school after winter break, I was just coming over a hill, about ten miles from Clines Corners. It had been a clear, cold day and thoughts of the "storm" I'd heard about were completely out of my head. A friend was getting a ride, and he was sleeping with those puffy eye shade things on (sometimes I didn't feel so bad about sleeping with his girlfriend). Right over the hill the nice clear and dry road turned into snow and ice. In front of us was a huge line of cars going about 30 mph through these conditions. I was going 65 and the car was not slowing down as we went down the hill on ice. I was pumping the breaks (slowing a bit), and when we got to the line, the car threw its hood under a semi. I jerked the wheel, threw the car into a ditch, jerked the wheel again, came out of the ditch going the same speed as all the other cars, and I didn't hit a thing. I looked over at my friend. His eye shades were askew, and he was wide awake. My screaming ("Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!") probably prompted his wide-eyed look.

I never wrecked my car, but some other people did. In '97, after weathering many break-ins while on a three-month "vacation" in Florida, my car was stolen out of my driveway in Albuquerque. The kids (I have to assume here) ditched another stolen car, found the easiest one on the block to break into (mine, as Florida proved well), drove the car to the west side of town and ran it into the curb. It was found a couple of days later (after a brief spring snow storm) and had to be in car hospital for about a month. This probably would have been the time most people would have gotten a new car. But I had no money, and my parents were kind enough to pick up the repairs on their credit card. At the time I was deathly afraid of looking for something new.

A year ago, I knew that 2002 was the last year for the car. Repairs were happening every six months or so. Nothing big, but usually a nice $250 or more to make sure it kept running a little longer. And even though these are relatively small sums of money to keep the car moving, I was getting tired of not trusting the thing anymore. When I went on long trips, I rented cars (I've been doing this for a couple of years), and I was hesitant to think about going anywhere more than an hour out of town.

A month or two ago, when the weather changed from warm fall to cold fall, my car couldn't decide if it wanted to keep the anti-freeze I was feeding it or just spray it everywhere. Eventually, it decided to spray it everywhere. And then, a few weeks ago, the driver-side door decided not to close anymore. The end was near.

I had a lot of good times in the car. I never had sex in the car (there are an infinite number of more comfortable places than the interior of a Camaro to get busy in), but I did enjoy scaring the hell out of girls by driving like a bat out of hell without my seat belt on. This is actually better than doing it, because fear is a good motivator, and I seem like much more of a daredevil than I really am. I logged 102,000 miles in a little over 12 years. I drove it back and forth across the country, even though the air conditioner only worked for a couple of those years. I made countless mix tapes to counteract radio banality, and screamed the words to thousands of songs as I cruised.

In the end, though, it was a worn out relationship. It was tired of working properly, and I was tired of the excuses. We weren't having fun anymore and both of us called it at pretty much the same time. I negotiated $1000 in trade without the dealer even seeing it, cleaned out 12 years of accumulation and took a few pictures as the new car looked on. The dealer, when he found out how long I'd had the car, asked if I needed a few minutes alone. I declined.

We had a full 12 years of life together, and it's time to move on.

Matt Worley is no longer the driver of a bitchin' gray Camaro.