The same, of course, has been said about its owner.

My car is the ’86 Chevy Caprice Classic I drove here from New Hampshire nearly eight years ago. Loyal readers of this column will undoubtedly recall in October 2000, I wrote the following:

I drive a dented-up ’86 Chevy. I love that car. Why? It’s been loyal, that’s why. As I possess the worst sense of direction in the free world, that car and I have found ourselves in some pretty bleak spots. But it’s never stranded me in one of them.

No, that car is my pal, and I’m sticking with it until it blows its last gasket.

That was almost five years ago, and the car still hasn’t blown any gaskets. But I’m about to ... out of shame. In an act of utter betrayal, I have (choke) replaced it with another car.

It’s nothing fancy-shmancy — a ’97 Lumina with about 100,000 fewer miles than my gallant Caprice Classic.

I’m really feeling guilty about this.

I never gave the car a name, but there was definitely some male bonding between us. We were buddies with an unspoken compact.

It would always start up, take me where I needed to go and never conk out on me in the middle of nowhere.

For my part, I would talk to it, give it encouraging pats on the dashboard, fill it up with gas, and ignore the strange looks and comments I would get about it.

A couple of years ago, a friend told me his son had a question he couldn’t answer.

"Hey Dad, you know the editor of The Daily Star pretty well, don’t you? How come he drives such a crummy car?"

Young people just don’t understand loyalty.

I can’t tell you what color the car is, because the years have turned it kind of mawkish brown/gray. Rust has eaten away at the body, and it has the scars from any number of minor encounters with other vehicles.

I wear a suit and tie to work most days, and I guess the sight of a middle-aged guy in a suit driving a rusty old car is pretty incongruous. Small children would sometimes stare and point as I drove by.

But there is a lot to be said for driving a big, old, ugly car.

I could park in the most crowded parking lot and not have one bit of trouble finding it amid all those newer cars that all seem to look the same.

But I take a lot of ribbing about that automobile.

One reporter (who coincidentally is no longer with this newspaper) used to delight in making fun of my car. Occasionally, he would go too far.

"Listen," I would tell him. "I’ve known that car a lot longer than I’ve known you. I like that car more than I like you. If you did your job half as well as that car does its job, I’d like you a lot more than I do."

I think the reporter knew I was kidding.

I’m not sure I knew, though.

Through the years, I’ve considered getting a different car. But with four kids and a wife, there always seemed to be more-important things on which to spend money. Besides, that car just kept running and running.

For that matter, it’s still running.

But it barely made it through last year’s cold winter. One night, after I parked it in frigid temperatures, I thought I would try to start it up again. It made a noise I haven’t heard since I saw "The Exorcist" and refused to start up.

The next morning, the engine bravely turned over, but I could sense it was operating on pure guts.

There are peculiar fumes when I start it now, and it uses more than a bit of oil. Out of deep respect, I shan’t mention any more of its myriad ailments.

At any rate, this is no place for an elderly rear-wheel-drive car in the winter. I figure the best thing I could do for it is to let it retire with dignity.

I’m donating it to a charity, which will find a way to make some money off my gallant friend.

If you think I’m getting too mushy about an insentient bucket of bolts, you just don’t understand. But others do. After word got out, I received a lovely condolence card from four guys who work in The Daily Star’s pressroom.

"Sam — Us motorheads in the pressroom understand your loss. Sorry about the loss of your old car."

What they lacked in grammar they more than made up for in empathy. It doesn’t make the pain of abandoning my old pal go away, but knowing someone understands helps.

It really does.

———

Sam Pollak is editor of The Daily Star. He can be reached at spollak@thedailystar.com or at (607) 432-1000, ext. 208.