The VW Bug and Rocket Science

Photo by dave_7 from Lethbridge, Canada via Wikimedia
Photo by dave_7 from Lethbridge, Canada via Wikimedia

In 1972, the same year that the final Apollo mission flew, I found myself without a ride to high school. Yes, we could get to the moon, but could I get to school?

I lived about a 30-minute drive from the Catholic high school I attended (Mount DeSales), and my sophomore year I and my brother John, who also attended MDS, had lost our previous year’s transportation. So I got right on the phone to work the problem. Well, I wish I could say that. Actually, it was my mother who got on the phone. She determined that our best shot was getting a ride with Mr. Considine, who taught at Mount DeSales and who lived only about a mile away. But Mr. Considine said no. He said he’d had riders before and they were interrupters of morning routine, always getting in the way and causing delays. After his last experience he’d sworn off all riders forever. When my mother’s efforts following other leads all failed, we finally had to face the inescapable gravity of the situation. Desperate, my mother called Mr. Considine back and begged him to reconsider. She offered to pay him generously and assured him we’d be no trouble: he’d never even see us; we would just wait in the car. Under these terms, Mr C relented.

Now, what all this effort, bribing, and pleading got us was a 1960s Volkswagen Beetle. Picture a cute, shiny, colorful VW Bug. Mr. Considine’s car was nothing like that. His Bug was old, a dull gray–or at least it had been gray at some point. And these subcompacts are awfully small inside–with only about the same interior space as an Apollo command module, a tight fit for 3 men. Mr. Considine had two children also going to MDS, so that meant 5 of us had to fit into the Bug. Mr. C and his son sat up front, and his daughter (Peggy), my brother, and I crammed into the back seat. Peggy was thin, but still we literally rubbed elbows–and probably butts, too, though I’ve repressed that memory. Adding to this enforced awkward intimacy, Peggy’s long hair was usually wet in the mornings, so she flipped it constantly during the 30-minute trip to help it dry. I was immobilized, forced to smell wet hair, and, periodically, wet strands flicked me in the face.

A typical winter day was like this: John and I walked the mile to Mr. Considine’s house in the freezing rain, arriving about 15 minutes early so that we’d never be the nuisance cause of any delay. We squeezed into the Bug, which was parked on the street, and waited there like out-of-favor stepchildren. John and I maybe vied with each other who could blow the longest plume of breath vapor until Mr. Considine emerged from the house and he and his children contorted themselves into the car. Then Mr. C would give the ignition a crank–and no go. Another try. Still no go. A third attempt. Again no. . . . Houston, we have a problem. Please advise.

Bill, we’re still running the numbers down here, but we advise that you try manual propulsion.

Manual propulsion? You mean “get out and push”?

That’s affirmative.

So we’re go for untethered EVA?

That’s affirmative, Bill.

Copy that, Houston.

I should say at this point that the VW was parked on the street–headed downhill–for a reason. John and I and Mr. C’s son would extricate ourselves, go behind the car, and give it as much thrust as we could. That was such an odd feeling–watching the vehicle we were supposed to be in coast away, leaving us farther and farther behind like ejected boosters. Usually, on Mr. C’s third or fourth try, the clutch start technique would work and we’d hear the engine pop. We have ignition! Mr. C would orbit the block, pause, and we’d wrestle ourselves back in for the slow sputtering trek to school.

The afternoon return trips had an ambience all their own when as a special treat Mr. C would smoke a big cigar. Apollo 13 had more oxygen than we did. Houston, our capsule is filling up with smoke and noxious gases. Please advise.

German engineering, by way of rocket scientist Wernher Von Braun, got us to the moon, and, by way of automotive designer Ferdinand Porsche, got me to Mount DeSales.

Mr. Considine’s VW Bug wasn’t comfortable. It didn’t run smoothly. And it certainly wasn’t much to look at. But I guess I have to admit that it did move us through space when we needed it to–and in the end it brought us safely home.

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4 thoughts on “The VW Bug and Rocket Science”

    1. Thank you for commenting, Mark. I guess we shouldn’t expect good memories from a car commissioned by Hitler.

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