The Magical Corona

What an ordinary vehicle got up to …

It was back in the day, when I was young, naive and a bit foolish.

I was 19, and in my first year of being in the workforce, working for one of Australia’s major banks, when my mother pulled me aside to offer a business proposal: if I saved $2000, I could buy the family car, a rather unassuming dusky blue 1976 Toyota Corona sedan.

It was in mint condition, as my parents were meticulous about caring for their cars, and only updated them for a good reason, such as the baseplate rusting out (this spelt the end of their first car, a 1957 Holden FE, which they reluctantly parted ways with after 15 years).

They wanted to help their son out, and get him mobile, and also to update their Corona for…you guessed it, another Corona.

I knew what I was buying, and with its regularly-serviced history, was too good to refuse. I was also familiar with driving it, as my mother had been one of my teachers when I learnt to drive. She replaced my father, who cringed with every gear grind and abrupt stop — I remember his stressed “What are you doing to my car….?”.

The savings target was reached, and money and registration changed hands.

Soon after, I was mobile.

I had recently passed my driving test, after three attempts (yes, that is another story, involving an interesting driving instructor), and my driving confidence grew with every journey.

The newbie driver

The open road was now mine.

I was able to drive myself and friends to and from my church youth group on Friday nights, as well as take them on journeys to far-flung destinations on weekends.

It also led to rather interesting after-youth-group journeys, to hang-outs such as the Doncaster Pancake Parlour, where a group of us made it a tradition involving face stuffing with assorted sweet and savoury pancakes, washed down with malts in bulging glass mugs.

We also made expeditions to a legendary independent cinema known as The Valhalla Cinema, to watch Friday midnight screenings of The Blues Brothers. These were special because regulars attended dressed as Jake and Elwood, and responded to classic lines during the screenings.

One Friday, after Youth, my best friend came up with an interesting, rather crazy idea: why don’t we go home via The Acheron Way?

This was a crazy idea, as it would be a detour of about 3 hours, and involve a bonegrinding drive along a winding mountainous road, in the mountainous Great Dividing Range, north of Melbourne, confronting us with pea soup-like fog, as it was July, in the midst of Melbourne’s freezing winter.

That’s it below — during the day…

Good ideas, and crazy ones, start with the best intentions, and soon we were on our way, in two cars, chatting among ourselves, as we drove through Melbourne’s eastern suburbs, then approached the mountains, where the Maroondah Highway became a series of tight bends, as we approached the Black Spur, which was indeed black, at midnight.

We were soon at the tiny town of Narbethong, the entrance to this legendary road, which would lead us to Warburton, 35 km south. The only sign of life was The Black Spur Inn, the local watering hole for the locals.

We turned left, and our drive for the next hour involved a never-ending series of mind-bending turns and steep grades, with massive ferns and tall eucalypt trees encroaching on both sides. The brains of the drivers were stretched, concentrating on negotiating their cars through the thick, syrupy fog.

We drove through the small, isolated town of Fernshaw, the halfway point — there were no lights on in any of the houses — the locals, like we should have been, were snoozing.

After a seemingly endless trek, we saw the lights of Warburton, and knew that we were on our way home. Then came the speed restrictions — roadworks!

The detour had been interesting, but we were glad when we were home.

The first Car Insurance Claim

I had not owned the Corona for long when Christmas approached.

One of my presents was my first car stereo, which now needed to be installed. My favourite uncle offered to do this, and I spent the next Saturday at his and my aunt’s house in Sunbury, north of Melbourne.

He removed the standard (boring) AM radio, and replaced it with this marvel, which featured four speakers, converting my Corona into a music studio on wheels.

After thanking him, I drove home, happily distracted by stereo Kiss greeting my eardrums on all four sides. This was fine while I was on the freeway, but when I approached heavy traffic close to Melbourne city, I was unprepared.

I was now in slow traffic, nearing Melbourne Zoo, when I took my eyes off the road to change cassette tapes in the stereo. Unknown to me, the car in front of me, also a Corona, had abruptly slowed from about 40 km/hour to nil in about 10 metres. I did not, and BANG, there I was, third in line in a three-car front-end / rear end accident.

The drivers involved and I exchanged names, phone numbers and addresses, necessary for insurance claims, and returned to our cars, which we were all relieved to learn, we were still able to drive.

I soon found that, although my Corona’s engine had not been damaged, the bonnet catch had. Not long after I drove away, up it went, reducing my visibility to an expanse of blue. I was relieved to not instantly being involved in accident number two, and pulled over to the side of the busy road, instantly incurring the wrath of passing drivers. I tied the bonnet to the catch with strong string I had, and very gingerly continued my journey home. I then had the “my first accident” conversation with my parents.

The great journey west (and the cat with the low IQ)

There were other hair-raising journeys, as the Corona adjusted from a sedate life of being driven by a careful middle-aged couple to an existence of long country journeys, and occasional mechanical repairs, including one to put the rear axle back onto its U-bolts. This was the result of seven occupants and a short drive on a mountainous road.

The years passed.

I married.

Then, one day, my (first) wife informed me that she wanted to move from Melbourne where we lived, to Mount Barker, near Adelaide, in South Australia, to be close to her parents, who had moved there a year prior, to be close to them and her younger brother and sister.

We managed to get transfers with our jobs to Adelaide, and soon after were packing up our life into a large removals truck, leaving my parents and all our friends behind, and the Corona was driving along the Western Highway, approaching Ballarat.

It was late in the day, and we knew that this was going to be an all-night trip, as that was the only time that the removalists had available.

We had two cats, and as we knew that cats generally do not travel well, had nestled them into two cardboard boxes with bedding inside and plenty of air holes in the top.

We crossed the South Australian border without incident, and cats were not too stressed.

Then, at about 3:00am, as we were approaching the eastern South Australian town of Keith, we became stuck behind a slow-moving B-Double refrigerated truck. My wife, eager to reach our destination, urged “Just overtake him!”

I pulled out to the right, and a long expanse of straight unoccupied Dukes Highway greeted us. I was very nervous, though, in this long, dark overtake, and soon saw the twin lights of an approaching car, far off.

We were soon safely past the truck, and I quickly pulled back to the safety of the left lane, then proceeded to put as much distance between us and the truck as I could.

It was then that our mentally-challenged cat, Tammy, decided to have a stress attack, and proceeded to demolish her box in her attempts to escape. My wife was unable to stop her, and soon we had a cat roaming across the Corona’s dashboard, not an ideal situation for a driver trying to concentrate.

Our cat’s stress soon spread to my wife, who said “You have to stop!” I answered “You’re kidding — we have just overtaken a truck!”

The stress level within the Corona then escalated, and, with one eye on rear-view mirror, eying the monstrous truck behind us, I very gradually slowed down, and pulled off the road onto the rocky road edge, to begin the wife and cat de-stressing exercise, and the cat re-boxing exercise.

Not long after, the truck thundered past, with a long, angry blow of its horn.

The Corona’s Conclusion

Wen then settled into our new lives in Adelaide, and the Corona survived, although its engine became noisier.

We decided to sell it, to update cars, and soon found a buyer, who happened to be a mechanic. He was able to repair the engine, and the Corona began the next phase of its life as a gift to his wife.

We then bought its replacement, the Ford Telstar…

Support me in my writing and sharing by becoming a Medium Member. As a member, part of your membership fee goes to also supporting the amazing writers whose stories you read.