I have a hard time remembering the 1990s much. I can recall 1987 month by month, but much of the Clinton Administration is lost to a foggy haze. I lived alone in the same apartment building, worked variations of the same job I backed into for the same company, and was sort of boring. My identity had stalled out, still trying to figure out the difference between what I was and what I thought I was supposed to be.

My daily in the late 1990s was a Volvo T5-R in T5-R yellow. (Not this actual one, that sits in the Volvo Museum, but it looked just like it) I bought it used from the Volvo dealership, trading in my Alfa GTV6.

I saw it regularly sitting in the used part of the Volvo dealership’s lot. It was hard to miss. I could afford it. It was a good car. It held the road without a rattle or squeak in complaint. The interior was black leather and Alcantara, with a 6 CD changer in the trunk, and a non-operative cell phone in the center console. It was the first car I owned with heated seats, good for the dozen in Austin when one’s butt needs warming. The big beautiful brutal wheels shod in low profile Pirelli P-Zeros looked cool to me. I hit a big pothole driving down FM 969 at night. The impact put a big dent in the rim, but the tire held (it was not a cheap fix). The hood opened to a full 90 degrees, allow access to the mechanic friendly engine bay according to a mechanic friend. I drove it to one of the impromptu Friday night car meets in the What-a-Burger parking lot up off I-35 near Round Rock. Shoehorned between the chopped Mercurys and the fart-can Civics, no one seemed to notice. That no-one noticed may be more on me than that of the car. I am not much a “let’s meet some strangers” person. Not that I don’t want to, I just really suck at it and I think my frustration comes off as just too dorky.

One of the three collisions I been in was in this car. Up on 183 near Pecan Creek Parkway, when they were still building the elevated roadway, I slowed and stopped behind a line of cars waiting on a red light. Zooming up behind me, the teenage pilot of a 4th Gen Pontiac Firebird didn’t notice the chain of brake lights and whacked the back end of the yellow brick. My bumper got knocked askew, but the Pontiac suffered a significant rearrangement of its complex plastic snout.

Who was I trying to impress with this car? I was lonely, but maybe a pale yellow Volvo wasn’t the best way to attract a mate. Was I trying to express that I was safe, yet sporty? Was it an easier way to work my Swedish heritage into the conversation? Was it some complex thing about my mother? (She learned to drive on behind the wheel of black PV544. She said she cried when the car was sold.)

I did drive it on at least one date. Or I thought it was a date, since I spent most of time in panicked confusion and self-delusion.

I remember driving with a couple of friends up and down some hills west of town, waiting for the readout of instant MPG to go past 99.9. (It never did.)

I suffered the fate of the dude who really can’t afford a used European fancy car. Making payments and maintaining the car wore me down. I traded it in on a Ford.

I spotted a yellow wagon T5-R at Radwood last year. I didn’t realize how much I missed it. It was a good car. Would definitely buy again.
Was it the right car for me at the time? Probably not. Why would a lonely, introverted, awkward guy with a mildly boring career drive around in a bright yellow Swedish hot rod? You got. Compensating for something.