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Overcast. Slight chance of a rain shower. Low 58F. Winds light and variable..

Overcast. Slight chance of a rain shower. Low 58F. Winds light and variable.

So on my commute from Tawas to Whittemore the other evening, the dial locked into my favorite radio station of 60's, '70's and '80's endless list of jukebox favorites, the song "Born to be Wild" by Steppenwolf started to play through the speakers.

My senses were flooded with a sudden vision, gripped with a fleeting thought during my drive westward down M-55, my face painted with the orange glow of the setting sun on the horizon.

It was that sense of the ultimate freedom to travel the beaten road without a moment of regret, grief or conflict, my left arm stretched out the window to motion like a curving snake against the opposite wind sheer.

There's nothing like the nostalgia of remembering your first "true" car to call your own. It was 1986 and imagine if you will, the ultimate enjoyment of having a set of keys at your beck and call, that jangle clank sound of picking those keys from your jeans pocket and that perfect slide fit into the ignition and turn. And then, that pure satisfaction of an engine awakened to clear its throat, shrug its shoulders, and proceed to hum effortlessly in anticipation of the new journey about to beset it.

There was this congratulatory level of pedigree bestowed upon any individual at such an early stage of life, and that was me at the ripe age of 20 years old. This love of my life was in the form of a 1983 Honda Civic 3-Door Hatchback, what they called "the 2nd Generation."

The car's curb weight was still under a ton, scaled in at a mere 1,700 pounds (give or take) and it came with just one engine choice: a 1.5-liter 12-valve four equipped with the innovative CVCC dual-combustion-chamber system — which honestly really meant nothing to me at the time.

I just knew when I plopped my butt into the driver's seat, fired up that baby, then put it into gear to speed away joyfully down the road without a care in the world.

Not to get too off track, but the Mahon family name is very often mispronounced, thus butchered by anyone who throws a vowel here or there, just to hope the phonetic spaghetti sticks to the wall. So as a clever method to get folks to say our last name correctly, we would often use the manufacturer "Honda" to assist with guiding their tongues in the right grammatical direction; thus the term "Mahonda" was created.

That said, all the great vehicles in history are given names to enhance their personality, so it was a no-brainer to christen this lovely fellow "The Mahonda Mobile."

Technically, this wasn't my first car but it doesn't really count that I weened myself on the mighty highway; me driving my father's beloved olive green luxury liner-sized 1972 Chrysler Newport, and my dad's gleeful "you're so smart my lad" enjoyment upon teaching me to change a tire, as he watched me and my utter dismay and frustration at attempting to loosen the dang lug nuts on the front rim, you know?

It's always supposed to be "righty tighty, lefty loosey," well not the case at all with a Mopar product, I literally bent the tire iron trying to break those nuts free with all my willful might. So when the opportunity came around when my older brother purchased a brand spanking new Pontiac Fiero, he decided to offer and hand over the keys to his Civic without as much as a moment of doubt.

To me, it was beautiful, that mystical, magical moment where the clouds in the sky would slowly open up to reveal a heavenly beam of sunlight on the object of strong desire, accompanied with the angelic tones of a tabernacle church choir, yeah, it was like that.

The "Mahonda's" color was a metallic, lightly caramelized beige, peppered with scattered spots of oxidized surface rust and with slight, hardly noticeable battle dents, it gave the lovely beast some distinct character. Ahh the freedoms that came equipped with this automobile! No more needing permission to ask for the keys, no more estimated time to return the vehicle, and best yet, no more interrogations over the condition of the interior appearance.

I would just put $5 into the gas tank, and it seemingly drove forever, it never burned oil, I hardly remember repeating the first oil change; it ran like a champ, and like the song exclaims '"Get your motor runnin', head out on the highway, looking for adventure, in whatever comes our way!" Priceless.

But what it gained with the engine, the body over time, just didn't hold up to its end of the deal. Everytime I would close the driver's door, I could hear the rust flakes floating inside the panel just like a shaken box of Corn Flakes and eventually both the doors got so bad, the glass windows  fell out and shattered.

Plexiglass replacement panes were cut to shape the doorway and permanently installed, which mean there were no more snaky arm rolls in the wind. It got to the point where I had to channel my inner Red Green frame of mind, it doesn't matter if it's duct tape or zip ties, a temporary jury rig becomes a permanent fix if it works.

After a few thousand miles of trailblazing, it came to the front struts starting to fail and sadly the car was sold off for a measly $200. It's probably part of your razor blades right now. All said and done, I definitely got my money's worth out of my first car...the Mahonda Mobile, there was no substitute.