The disciples of the risen Christ were supposedly big Honda fans: according to Acts 2, at the time of the Pentecost, they were all in one Accord. (It would pretty well have to be a big Honda, am I right?) More recently, we have Jack Baruth:
I simply adore the Honda Accord, particularly in its most aggressive variants. This is not a passing fancy for me. Way back in 1989, a fellow BMX racer spent $500 on a ’77 five-speed Accord hatch that was half the color of raw sewage and half the color of iron oxide. The clutch slipped and the alignment was best described as “directionally challenged.” It smoked and stalled and the seats had long since turned to beige dust, but I loved it. It had more pure emotion baked into it than my Marquis Brougham coupe, the 200SX I drove to get my driver’s license, and the pair of stick-shift “eta”-motor BMW E30 coupes owned by my father. It was low-slung, with a visually absent hood and goldfish-bowl visibility.
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a ’77, but otherwise this is exactly the Honda my daughter was driving after she was forced to retire Muff the Tragic Wagon, her Ford Escort that was held together by — well, nothing, actually. (The last time I saw it, the turn-signal lever was on the floor.) Somehow, she managed to blow a head gasket, and thereafter, about every other vehicle she had was tragic in its own way, the worst perhaps being an Oldsmobile Bravada with two (out of a possible four) doors apparently welded shut. Were it not for good old biology — she now has three children — she might have forestalled that Olds business with the Toyota Tacoma with which she picked me up at the airport and then whirled me back to her place at about 92 mph all the way, providing me with another data point for my ongoing theory to the effect that the presence of a lead foot makes nice legs look even nicer.
But that’s ancient history now. Last I looked, the family fleet included one of those ubiquitous Mopar minivans and, yes, another Accord.