Tiny Pontiac proves worthy getaway car

The tone said it all.

"What happened to my pyramid of brownies?" my wife, Lisa, clucked from the kitchen. For a Sunday morning, her tone was surprisingly stern.

I confessed to an early morning case of the munchies that led to the minor samplings. I told her the incident also involved two homemade dips she had slaved over the night before. Then I gently softened her by waxing on about a correlation between her cooking ability and the incident. Obviously, if she wasn't such a good cook, the raid would never have happened.

In the wee morning hours, the inside of the fridge had looked like a well-stocked New York delicatessen. Not surprising, after the cache of wine Lisa dragged home the day before along with bags of mysterious ingredients for patés, desserts and other yummy stuff I was not supposed to touch. The kitchen became a "Garry no-go zone" while the phone rang off the wall with calls about the bridal shower Lisa was throwing for our future sister-in-law, Erin.

"Alright. I can rebuild the brownie pyramid and smooth over the fork marks in the dip, but you still have to make yourself scarce today." Lisa had that "I'm-Martha-Stewart-and-I-can-do-anything" look on her face.

I was banned from my own home so a gaggle of Erin's friends and relatives could partake in the hazy world of a female-only bridal shower. Hazy, because I've never been able to get a clear explanation as to what goes on at a bridal shower other than fragmental information about playing games and eating sandwiches without crusts.

I decided the six hours of limbo would be an opportunity to drive one of my cars that had not seen the light of day for a while. I fished into the key box and pulled out the key to our 1991 four-door Pontiac Firefly, the Canadian equivalent to the Geo Metro.

It's silver with no tape deck, cruise control or any power options to speak of. Without even a rear wiper, this base unit of the 1991 General Motors Corp. lineup defined basic. Just a radio with four tinny speakers. A spider that my daughter Natalie made from a piece of egg carton eight years ago dangles from the rearview mirror.

I leased the Fly as an office run-around car nearly two decades years ago. At the time, its three-cylinder engine was one of the stingiest fuel users on the market. I rationalized its existence by theorizing the fuel savings over my eclectic fleet of guzzlers would cover the payments. Fuzzy logic, indeed. When the lease was up, I purchased what turned out to be an exceptionally trouble-free vehicle. With its as-new finish, the rust-free little econobox looked like it just came out of the carton.

We all call it The Fly, of course, and I will keep it forever ... because no one else would.

Just before leaving, Lisa asked if I wanted a sandwich for the road. My stomach flipped considering the nasal delights permeating the house. She handed me a plate of crusts from the trimmed shower sandwiches. Tiny scraps of filling clung to a few of them.

The cell phone rang before I got out of the driveway. It was my mother hinting for a drive downtown with her friend Catherine. I told her about my exile and thanked her for giving me something to do.

"What are you driving?" She was obviously hoping for something exotic.

"The Fly." After almost 20 years, she knew what I meant.

"We'll take the bus then."

She laughed and then agreed to my services.

I snapped photographs of them getting out of the car in front of a throng of Sunday strollers alongside a downtown park. Mom and Catherine were all dolled up for an afternoon concert and I made the most of the opportunity.

"Everybody must think we're big shots," she whispered as I said goodbye.

"Yeah," I said, pointing to the diminutive silver subcompact. "Real shakers in this big Firefly."

I couldn't help slinking around my neighborhood after leaving them. I went by our house hoping for a glimpse of bridal shower action. On the way, I saw an old friend and pulled over to chat. I could tell from his body language that he didn't get my rationale for hanging on to the Firefly when I had a garage full of capable cars and trucks.

I drove around aimlessly all afternoon. The putter of the tiny three-cylinder engine and the whine of its five-speed manual transmission kept me amused for a while. I listened to an "oldies" AM radio station and reminisced about the old days of planning record-setting around-the-world trips from this very seat.

After a few hours, however, I was Flyed out. But since it was my duty to keep away from the house and family until 6 p.m., I carried on. Thankfully Lisa called, ending my exile. I parked in the driveway and exchanged pleasantries with hangers-on in the backyard. Inside, while greeting the exuberant bride-to-be, I surveyed the scene for evidence of bridal-shower game activity.

The dining room looked like the aftermath of a Roman feast. And there, among the dregs of gourmand delights, I spotted the remains of my old friend, the brownie pyramid.

Perhaps I wouldn't see it -- or The Fly -- again until the next bridal shower and who knows when that might be. So I scarfed down the last of the pyramid and took The Fly for one final drive.

Garry Sowerby, author of "Sowerby's Road: Adventures of a Driven Mind," is a four-time Guinness World Record holder for long-distance driving. His exploits, good, bad and just plain harrowing, are the subject of World Odyssey, produced in conjunction with Wheelbase Communications. Wheelbase is a worldwide provider of automotive news and features stories.