Letter To A Suzuki Samurai, 2 Kool 2 B 4Gotten

To an old school 1986 Suzuki Samurai on the occasion of meeting your new teenage driver

Dear Super Rad ’86 Samurai,

You’re 29 this summer, looking down the highway at the big three-o. I’ve also heard that you have been spending some extra time on the road with Catherine, my cousin’s daughter, practicing for her driver’s license test.  It got me thinking back to our time together. I know you’re not anybody’s everyday car any longer—and certainly won’t be Catherine’s—but back when you were mine, you weren’t just every day for me. You were everything.

In 1986, few cars had more joie de vivre than you did, Suzuki Samurai. That is, at least in the price range for a starter car for a high school kid in Fort Lauderdale like me. Those Porsche 911 Carreras with the matching sunglasses were indeed bitchin’, and Don Johnson’s white Ferrari on Miami Vice held some powerful cultural cache, but the Samurai’s like you? You guys were all about fun. Television ads were everywhere: When a happy couple in their jolly little jeep would pass another happy couple in a jolly little jeep, they would toot the horn twice and wave hello. Before meme was even a thing, that honk-honk-hi caught on like wildfire. Soon Samurai drivers in the real world were doing the same thing. It was a not-so-secret club joyfully flirting with the threat of tipping over on a sharp turn.

Somehow I convinced my parents, those smart, reasonable people, that not only did I need a Samurai, but I needed it before my 16th birthday so that I could learn to drive on its manual transmission, guaranteeing that I could drive away from the DMV confident and secure the instant I had my license. Mom’s van, a sturdy GMC conversion model only half converted with shag carpet but no pull-out sofa, was an automatic and I made the case that learning to drive a stick shift was important. You know, for safety reasons, because nothing projects safety and sensibility like a Samurai. I would never be the girl stranded at a party because I couldn’t drive home.

Remember when we met on that warm night on U.S. 1 in Fort Lauderdale? My parents were always been big believers in buying “demonstrators:” cars that weren’t technically used but had a few miles on them from being driven by dealership employees. You fit the bill, my little Samurai — light blue with a white and silver side stripe — with just 1,500 miles when Mom drove you off the lot.

You had a backstory worthy of a John Hughes movie. Your demonstrator miles came with a cautionary tale about the owner of the dealership’s teenage son. That son apparently raised hell for 1,500 hard-earned miles all over Broward and Dade Counties before his father took you away and put you back up for sale on the lot.

Original Suzuki advertising photo

Just like Catherine is doing now, we practiced and practiced. I stalled you out in the deserted Publix parking lot with Dad. Mom winced every time I ground the gears trying to shift into second on my own street. Do you remember my driver’s test? I forgot to signal when we parallel parked. Even so, we celebrated with Mom and Dad and onion rings at Tony Roma’s then you and I were alone, really alone, for the first time. I was elated and terrified the entire way, which was just over two miles.