Someone recently asked me how I became "A Driven Woman," and I replied that I'd kind of fallen into it. "So, you didn't know anything about cars?" this person asked.

I was a little offended, until I realized that he was referring to a knowledge of car statistics --you know, how much horsepower, how many cylinders, yadda yadda yadda. The truth is, when I started writing about them I didn't know much about the technical aspect of cars. And I'm still learning about that. But, honey, I know a lot about cars.

Cars are powerful symbols -- of independence, of power, of status. Especially status. I often joke that in my part of the world the rule at a four-way stop is that the nicest car goes first, regardless of who actually has the right-of-way.

Women respond somewhat differently to cars than men do. According to Lesley Hazelton's wonderful book, "Everything Women Always Wanted to Know About Cars" (Doubleday), one way this manifests itself is that women, for the most part, "think of cars in terms of a relationship," while men think of them more "in terms of romance." (If you haven't bought this book yet, run right out and do so. It only costs $14.95, and it's full of valuable information.)

On a more personal level, I know that I have loved every car I've ever owned. And I realize that each car was appropriate for the circumstances of my life during the period I owned it.

My first car was a '61 VW Beetle that I bought for $100 when I was 17. Need I say more?

I moved up to a '68 Lincoln Continental (with suicide doors) and a '65 Mustang, but those were my dad's cars so they don't count.

Then I got the Magic Bus (which certain friends of mine still recall with great fondness). It was a blue and white VW bus, and it was ideal for carting around my daughter, stepdaughter, all their friends, the groceries and the dogs. We used to find excuses to pack everyone into that car, just because it was so much fun. Top speed was something like 50, going downhill on the parkway. Uphill was just embarrassing.

My relationship soured during one particularly cold winter when I realized I was freezing all the time. I walked into the house and announced to my then-husband (who was a mechanic) that I wanted a new car. "What kind?" he asked. "A Mercedes would be nice," I replied, only half-joking.

Three days later he arrived home with a '66 Mercedes sedan he'd found in a junkyard. The body was riddled with rust, but it was mechanically sound and had these leather seats that felt like heaven. And the heater worked. I loved it immediately, even the hole in the fender that spewed geyser-like on wet roads.

The last Christmas we were married, that husband gave me a Mazda RX7. Talk about symbolic! A two-seat sports car that was completely impractical and incredibly unreliable -- he was a mechanic, remember. Nice try, but I left him anyway, sold the Mercedes (which had been nicely restored by then) and kept the RX7. After all, what better car for a divorcee?

I never trusted that car. I loved it, but I never felt as if it was reliable. When it got stolen I was upset -- who wouldn't be? -- but not devastated. And I went and bought a 1980 Honda Civic, my first (and only) brand new car.

What a feeling! I chose the car, negotiated the deal and signed on the dotted line. For all intents and purposes, the Honda was my very first car. It was solid, dependable, fun to drive and, honestly, what a cute car! And talk about reliable -- it just kept going and going and going. Until the night a Mack truck hit me on the highway, totaling the car in the process. I was convinced then that my little Honda saved my life, because I walked away from that wreck relatively unharmed. Actually, I drove away from it because in spite of the entire left side being mangled, the car was drivable.

But the powers that be declared it beyond salvation, and I set out to find a replacement. Which is when I bought my '87 Audi S5000 Quattro. Now there's a mouthful, eh? It's big, it's solid, it's powerful and, even though it's old, it is a luxury car. And it suits my life. What more can a woman ask for?

© Elizabeth Hilts 1999