Surviving, Even Thriving, Without a Car in L.A.

“If you don’t own a car, you’re not living the L.A. lifestyle,” intoned a local television news anchor a few days after my car was stolen.

Or, as novelist Philip Reed, wrote in his “car noir thriller” last year, telegraphing a plan to pilfer the hero’s 1964 Chevy Impala: “That would get him out of the picture. Because, in L.A., stealing a guy’s car was like cutting him off at the knees.” When the hero discovered the treasured vehicle missing, “his worst nightmare was realized--he was in L.A., without wheels. He was grounded. Big time.”

C’est moi.

It has been seven weeks since Methuselah the Mustang, my faithful steed of 34 years, was taken from me, stripped and destroyed. Oddly to everyone who hears about it, my lifestyle has not suffered much.

I’ve gone to work every day.

I’ve bought the necessary groceries, prescription medicine and household stuff, had haircuts and manicures, kept appointments with doctors. I’ve met my volunteer commitments, giving tours at the Los Angeles Central Library and participating in the Revlon 5K Walk/Run for Breast Cancer. For recreation, I’ve seen six movies, including the IMAX “Everest” and, yes, of course, the new “Star Wars” movie. I’ve gone to two museums, two plays, a concert and an opera, attended a college alumni dinner and participated in a book club.

How? No, I have not rented a car, or borrowed a car, or bought a car, or even been in a taxi since I hired one to bring me home from the Larchmont Koo Koo Roo where my car was stolen. Lee Iacocca, the father of the Mustang, wrote to suggest I try the latest vehicle he is developing--an electric bicycle. But so far I haven’t.

I’ve kept up my version of an L.A. lifestyle, carless, the same way I managed to drive the Original Mustang for 34 years and tally only 133,237 miles on the odometer. I live downtown and I get to many places by Dash minibus, Red Line subway or, most often, on shank’s mare. A week or so ago I even rode on an MTA bus.

*

There have been challenges.

How to entertain guests? When a house guest came from Carmel, fortunately she brought her own car, so we were able to keep one of those still-hard-to-get reservations at the Getty. But another day she was only too happy to explore downtown on foot. Two other visitors from San Diego, reluctant to set off on one of my notorious downtown walking tours, seemed content enough sightseeing via Dash’s Weekend Discovery Route.

Then there was the doctor’s appointment more than five miles away at 4:30 on a work day. That’s Dr. Cathi Nanninga, who when my controlled blood pressure recently shot out of bounds, had doubled the medication but also prescribed: “Walk more.” Little choice without a car. I took the subway to its end at Wilshire and Western and then walked the last mile and a half. My blood pressure registered back in the safe zone.

An even bigger challenge was a doctor’s appointment in Santa Monica. That’s Dr. Deena Solomon, whom I refer to as my “weight shrink lady.” If I walked the whole 16 miles there, and lasted to walk back, I thought vaguely, surely that would do away with any excess poundage. But it might do away with me too.

No problem. I’d seen “Speed”; I knew about the Big Blue Bus. For only $1.25, it took me from my corner almost there. Unsure of the transfer process, I walked the last mile and a half. I had lost six pounds since my last visit. Dr. Solomon felt so sorry for me that she drove me home.

Then came the Revlon 5K. The event was staged early on a Saturday morning at the Coliseum near USC. The Dash doesn’t start on weekends until 10 a.m. So I warmed up for the 3.1-mile walk by walking four miles to the starting line.

So, I survive, and although 99.4% of Angelenos (and Americans for that matter) consider me demented for remaining carless, I’m in no rush to change the situation.

Whither Methuselah?

*

Well, I think what’s left is headed for the green, green grass of home: Indiana. Not in a coffin, but on a big truck.

I talked to Stan.

That’s Stan Oliver, my big brother, of Stan’s Truck Shop near Ellettsville, Ind. Stan’s the guy who drove Methuselah home from the Ford showroom back in 1965 to see if I might like to buy it. He talked to Chuck Francis of Chuck’s Auto and Dream Machines of America near Farmers Market, who has kindly guarded the remains and instructed insurance appraisers on the value of vintage Mustangs.

Stan and Chuck agreed that Methuselah is worth rebuilding, and Stan insisted he would like to do it. Well, OK, why not? He could make up for ignoring most of my 56 birthdays.

“You could call it the Phoenix car,” my brother said on the phone, promising to protect Methuselah from Hoosier weather by making a shelter in his garage behind the 18-wheelers. He has always liked that mythical Egyptian bird that springs reborn from self-immolation to live eternally. When the barn that housed his sons’ pet pony and goats burned years ago, he rebuilt that and forever called it the Phoenix barn.

“Or Lamech,’ I countered. That’s the suggestion of reader Michael A. Cavanaugh, one of the legions of ’65 Mustang fans who have urged me to reconstitute Methuselah.

“Maybe Methusalah--or Lamech, son of Methusalah--can get a new lease on life,” he e-mailed with encouragement. “And Lamech lived 777 years to Methuselah’s 969, so that’s not too bad.”

My colleague Larry Stammer, the religion writer, looked that up in his computerized Bible, and it’s true. Says so right there in Genesis 5: 26-31.

Attractive longevity, but the name doesn’t have quite the same ring. I think Methuselah will always remain Methuselah.

On Aug. 31, 2000, Methuselah the Mustang in whatever shape will be 35 years old.

On Aug. 12, 2000, Stan the brother will turn 60.

It remains to be seen whether Stan can rebuild Methuselah before either rusts.