The story of the Celica, written on July 30th, but with photos from purchase through the solo trip up to Seattle.
The shopping list
Once we opted to buy local, I knew I would be in a crunch with very limited time. I still hadn’t even decided what I wanted to drive. Coulda been anything. I pulled ads for everything from Jeep Cherokees to Suzuki Sidekicks, pickups, even convertibles and a Mini. My only criteria were price, the potential for good storytelling, and some reasonable assurance that I might make it at least half way.
That Rodeo would have been a good fit — cheap with a broken starter. The owner lives on a hill so it would have been test drive-able, and replacing a starter isn’t difficult or outside tradition. But he didn’t have a title. The Trooper would have also been amazing, but with a leaky manifold, it wouldn’t pass Inspection. Subarus are in high demand in Alaska and I’ve always liked the ones I’ve been in, so that would have been great. And how I wanted that glorious of 2DR/MT/red 90s Cherokee Sport!
Ultimately, I decided I wanted something very different from “my usual,” but I also wanted to leave George and Evan with the impression that I was buying yet another high-miler red truck.
I quickly learned that, among bottom dollar rides, no one in Austin wants to actually sell their car because they never answer their phone. When they do, they postpone on you. At the end of the weekend, I was only able to get one seller to respond and agree meet with me. He had a 1997 Toyota Celica. There was something about it that spoke to me, even if I don’t like white cars.
The Celica, the seller… and his father
Let me set this scene: I bought the truck at a recycling plant in an industrial park outside San Diego. I bought the 4Runner at a nice house in a middle class suburb of Sacramento. The Celica… probably isn’t allowed under the HOA it parks in at this exclusive gated community.
As I walked up, an enterprising young soul named Mark (changed for privacy — he has an uncommon name) stepped forward. I couldn’t figure his age exactly, maybe 18? His dad walked up to introduce himself but then retreated slightly to let Mark make the sale. This was gonna be interesting. In a few subtle ways, his dad reminded me of my dad. (Which I’m sure I’ll be asked about once Dad reads this…)
As I looked it over, its history came out: the family purchased this car from a veteran who they said didn’t drive it a lot, but kept all his service records. They bought it so that the seller’s younger brother could learn to drive stick in preparation for work on a ranch this summer. How preciously familiar. Having completed its service to that effort and survived the whole 100 miles they put on it, it was ready for me.
They let me go for a spin around the neighborhood unobserved so I could get a feel for it. It’s a fun little car in a very 90s-tastic way.
I could make this work. Everything felt solid. There were obvious problems in creature comforts and cosmetics, with a couple broken features, but it felt ready to make this trip. And with a little love, some Alaskan could put another hundred thousand miles on this car one day.
It felt right. Or right enough that a car in the lot is worth two in the expanse of unanswered messages. And I’ve never had a convertible, and likely never will again.
So why not have one now?
Beaches, mountains, ferries, forests. And George said he was going to get a pickup so I’ll have somewhere to put my stuff. Sounds perfect for this summer adventure.
The “negotiation”
I asked Mark his asking price — he answered by launching into how they arrived at that price, starting with their purchase price, the amounts they spent on the two things they did to it before its first listing, then increasing the asking price when they replaced the battery, also by exact amount.
Between that, the combination “confidence boost” and “performance anxiety” of Dad watching from the sidelines, and my instinct that this might not be an amount of money he can practically conceptualize, I didn’t get him down as far as I was hoping. But to his benefit, I had developed a fondness both for the car and the family.
We called it a deal and Mark’s Dad asked how I intended to pay — a check, money order… Bless. You really don’t do Craigslist cars, do you… You’ve entered a world of internet scams and cash, sir, so here’s a stack of the latter.
I headed home on a scenic highway that I took entirely too fast. That was fun. I feel good. I think this car may need a little work (spoiler alert…), but I’m pleased. It is ridiculous. It is entirely outside of my usual tastes in cars. It is rather impractical, it’s definitely been in at least two accidents, and it’s kind of a mess.
But it’s my mess. And I’m driving it to Alaska.
