driving the world

For a short time in life, just about three years if I remember correctly, I was the proud owner of a car. It was a dull grey Passat wagon that moved at the speed of a badly worn three-seater sofa, sold to me by a hick up Emigration Canyon who was strangely fascinated with "this little car". It was spacious enough for my needs, holding me, my bike, a large blue cooler and a 12-CD changer in comfortable harmony wherever I went in my exploring the West. The comfort was only broken once – when I parked the car in the woods to sleep in it before the race at Brian Head. The rear seats folded flat to create a bed just long enough for me to stretch out diagonally, but the windows didn't keep the cold out. I nearly froze to death on the Fourth of July.

I liked the car but never loved it. In quiet Sugarhouse, it was always parked with its doors unlocked and windows rolled down. When the fall winds stripped the big maple tree in front of our house naked, the rejected leaves found a new home in my car. I didn't mind their presence; the car was not a showpiece. So little, in fact, that I never washed it and only ever cleaned it out when the layer of dust and dried mud was too deep to operate the pedals.

I didn't love the car and didn't treat it like a treasure. I hated maintenance and deplored every dollar I had to put into it (and there were many). Maybe that's why it went belly up on me, the blown head gaskets finally too leaky for any sort of power to be generated. It took me home from southern Utah before it succumbed to lethal injuries, so I can't deny its loyalty, but with this car died the concept of car ownership in me.

I survived the last year in Utah by strategically moving into a pad right next to the grocery store, riding my bike to work, and getting friends give me rides from the coffee shop home. In Grenoble, I rode my bike everywhere, and when I had suffered up all the passes and bombed down all the descents, I joined a car club that helped me extend my range. L'Alpe d'Huez was suddenly doable in a few hours only. I got the pleasure of driving and the flexibility of a car without any of the hassle and little of the cost. No taxes, no inspections, no repairs, no oil change, no insurance. Just a brand new car whenever I need one.

In London, I've rejoined a car club but wouldn't miss it if I didn't have it. The tube and buses get me anywhere more quickly. But I travel more than in Grenoble and rent cars more than ever before. If you've been wondering where this story is headed, here it is: It so happened that I needed a vehicle to go to the car race I wrote about earlier.

On Saturday morning, before leaving for the airport, I booked an economy car through Expedia. The deal was good, even though there wasn't much scrounging for the best bargain involved. I picked the car up a few hours later and returned it the next day just outside the thirty-minute grace period, after having spent a good hour trying to find a gas station near the impenetrable maze that's Heathrow Airport. On the receipt, I saw that I was charged an extra day.

I had rented with Hertz, a company that I always associated with the top end of the market. In the US, Hertz was better than Budget, Avis, Thrifty or Enterprise, and more expensive. In Europe, the situation might be a bit different. Over the last four months I've rented with Hertz four times, and never through their web site directly. It was always a price comparison service that sent me there. And while the rates were reasonable, the vehicles didn't always live up to my car-less expectations.

In Tours I rented a shiny Clio for four days and paid less than a hundred pounds, insurance and one-way fee included. Despite my best efforts on the wheel, the little diesel didn't need a gas station until the very end, running dry after way more than 700 miles. One week later in Jordan, Hertz dished up a Korean-made Chevrolet that had seen better days, many of them. The car was old and worn out, with wobbly wheels, soft steering and poor brakes. Going 60 mph on a highway felt super-scary, the beater bouncing and swaying with a purpose that I could hardly control.

In Bilbao a few months later, I'm upgraded to an Astra. Not bad for thirty pounds a day, I think. But the car has 90,000 kilometers on the clock, more than I've ever seen on any rental, and starts smelling funny when I drive up to the Balcón de Guipúzcoa. When smoke rises from the hood, I turn around as gently as I can and coast down back to the sea. At San Sebastian airport I don't get an apology but a new car. I'm being re-downgraded, but at least there's no more smoke.

The latest in a continuous series of Hertz rentals took place in London on Saturday, the fourth stop in the fourth country. I got a Fiesta Zetec S that instantly turned me into an irresponsible teenager, accelerating, passing and speeding as if fines were certificates worth a frame and a license dispensable. So much fun in such a cute little package! The fun only lasted 24 hours and 34 minutes when, late by a bit, I'm charged a second day. In contrast to what I got, I think I deserve medallion status and an explanation of where Hertz sees itself in the market. I'll call tomorrow to check – and to get reimbursed and maybe score a gift card for my troubles.