My Favorite Car

by Spencer Michlin

She was a heartbreakingly gorgeous 1972 Citroen SM, chocolate brown with a matching interior that was redolent of a Parisian shoe store.  To own one was to be in love with the most beautiful woman on earth, half French and half Italian, whose allure was constantly undermined by the reality that she was also an extremely expensive and even more fickle whore.

The affair lasted for about 15 years.  The highs were ecstatic, the lows pain on a grand scale (the marque SM surely was not coincidental.)  Through the safe remove of distance, I miss her terribly.  In spite and because of the hard-won resolve never to repeat this particular mistake, I’m glad I had her.

Let’s begin with a couple of facts:  this was a hybrid of a sleek and unique Citroen carriage powered by a Maserati V-6 that delivered 180 horsepower.  Only 4036 of them were built, with perhaps 1000 finding their way to the U.S.  Designed to cruise for hours at 120 mph, it seated four (the rear seat was kind of small) and had front wheel drive and a pioneering variable assisted power steering.  Like most Citroens of the era, the SM featured hydraulic suspension (more about that later).  Popular Science decreed it to have the “shortest stopping distance of any car tested” (lucky thing, given the speeds at which it was meant to be driven).

Now for a couple of opinions other than my own.  Motor Trend chose the SM to be car their Car of the Year in 1972, and it placed 11th on Automotive Magazine’s list of 100 Coolest Cars of All Time.  According to cult car site Jalopnik Fantasy Garage (http://jalopnik.com/cars/jalopnik-fantasy-garage/citroen-sm-264002.php), Brezhnev had an SM, as did, both Cheech and Chong, and Jay Leno still has one.  Idi Amin had seven, while the Shah of Iran had but one, as did Lee Majors and Lorne Greene, not to mention His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, King of Kings of Ethiopia and Elect of God. 

Perhaps the best celebrity (if Idi Amin qualifies as a celebrity) reference of all:  remember the beginning of the original The Longest Yard, when Burt Reynolds steals his girlfriend’s unbelievably cool car and leads the police on a long chase that ends with the car submerged?  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sgcGQx_Efow)  You got it, a ’72 SM.

Presumably, the lot of them had good mechanics as well, because the Citroen SM was perhaps the most temperamental, most easily broken toy in history.  Parts failed on mine that I previously hadn’t even know existed; e.g., my Accumulator needed to be replaced four times at about five hundred (1970’s) bucks a throw.  Back then, I lived in Manhattan and had a beach house on Long Island.  The car pretty much stayed at the beach, although its primary residence was in Queens at the garage of Matteo and Gianni, two talented Italian immigrants whose children I put through school.

 While paying extortionate rent for a garage in Manhattan, I made the curious discovery that when the car was in town I could also confidently park it on the street.  Turned out that the most discerning pimps and ganstas in New York eschewed the big Lincolns and Caddys popular with their lesser colleagues in favor of the more tasty SM.  Sometimes, I’d saunter up to my car to find it being “guarded” by young men who, although they seemed a little disappointed that the owner turned out to be me, were respectful nonetheless and always had a kind remark about my ride.

About that hydraulic suspension.  In repose, the SM crouched about six inches above the ground.  When you started it, the Accumulator sent the hydraulic fluid rushing through the vehicle’s arterial system (so that’s what it was for!)  This caused the car to rise—and there’s simply no other word for it--phallically.  Once the car had achieved full tumescence, or at least the clearance you had set for it, it was ready to perform.

 And so were women passengers.  While I realize that this is a site primarily for women, facts are facts—this machine was a flat out aphrodisiac, and, being youngish and single at the time, I made the most of it.  One of my favorite routines was to cook a romantic dinner for a new girlfriend at my house.  Then I’d suggest a drive to the sliver of beach a couple of miles away.  When nature cooperated, we’d walk hand in hand along water’s edge with a big Hamptons moon smiling down on us.  After one such postprandial stroll, I fired up the car and, with a hormonal surge, it rose grandly.  The woman actually gasped.  Then I put it in gear.  It wouldn’t budge.  After several restarts, I found that we could move only in reverse.  Her gasps turned to giggles as, mortified, I backed the car to the house.  In the morning, a flatbed truck manned by either Matteo or Gianni, hauled it away.

Even then, I cheerfully paid them to fix my favorite car so it could continue to fail me for years to come.