Brenda and The Ghia,
aka RTG (Rad Turbo Ghia)
Model:
1974 Karmann Ghia
Name:
College friends named it the Rad Turbo Ghia; I just call it The Ghia.
Color:
Three paint jobs. The color now is a little more yellow than it was originally. It’s not the ’74 yellow. It’s like the ’73 or ’72 yellow.
Mileage:
102,881
Motors:
At least four motors.
Owned since:
1984—on and off since I was sixteen.
Owners:
Mom to Dad to me, then back to my parents and on to my brother, then into the barn (1997), where Dale and I rescued it in 2018.
Location:
California
Favorite driving song:
“Girls Just Want to Have Fun” by Cyndi Lauper. It was my first cassette tape, which I played endlessly in college.
One day my dad surprised us by showing up in the Karmann Ghia. We weren’t looking for a car, but this beautiful, happy yellow car showed up. My parents were well known in the Sierra town where we grew up, and the dealer said, “Go see if your family likes it. If they like it, we’ll make a deal, if not, just bring it back.” It was a different time.​
It’s a different way of transportation; you’re not going to be getting there quickly, and you have to plan ahead.
When Dad passed, we rented a trailer, brought gas, a new battery, and starter fluid. We unburied it from the back of the barn. We should have pushed it out, that might have been smarter, but . . . I’m in the driver seat and Dale (my husband) is behind the car and says, “If the car catches on fire, don’t stop because I’ll burn to death. Just keep going.” The Ghia starts, the exhaust is all messed up, and it stalls. Dale pours more starter fluid and it starts. We’re driving out of the barn, and then I e-brake it onto the trailer because there’s no brakes. I get it on the trailer—The Ghia is alive! We look underneath and gas is pouring out. It’s not a trickle, it’s pouring out, and Dale yells, “Turn off The Ghia.”
I love the color. I love the sound it makes, I love the putt-putt.
My mom was a schoolteacher and drove it for years through the snow. We fit four kids on that little bench seat in the back, no seat belts, and headed to ballet class. Then on my sixteenth birthday, I was given The Ghia. I packed probably six or seven girlfriends in there, and some of the guys too. We went to concerts and had many adventures—everyone wanted to ride in The Ghia. After I graduated, I took it to college and everyone started calling it the Rad Turbo Ghia.
All my life experiences are tied to The Ghia. So many great memories since I was a kid, all the way to now. I worked at a ski resort and I would take The Ghia up there. It had studded snow tires and is a great snow car. I was a ski hostess, so my job was to ski around and ask “Are you having fun at Dodge Ridge today?” It was the best job, but I only made like five dollars. Also sleeping in it with my friend Tricia at a Grateful Dead show where we got to meet Jerry. Some people didn’t sleep as well in it, but I could sleep really well. When I’m driving it, it feels like I’m with my buddy. I was driving it the other day and thought, Wow, this is our car from our wedding, thirty-three years ago!
​
After college, I moved to Southern California and bought a new car, and The Ghia went back to my parents’, where other family members briefly drove it. One day, my parents told me, “We’re going to sell The Ghia.” So I wrote this story, Ode to The Ghia, which told all the stories of The Ghia, all the memories it gave to each family member. The Ode was very heartfelt, so they decided not to sell it and rolled it into the barn, where it sat for years. At one point, Dad called and said “I’m going to get The Ghia going,” but then life happened and it went back into the barn.
I like the simplicity of The Ghia. You turn it on, warm it up, and get it going. Get your bounce going—that sound, that putt-putt—and you’re pressing the gas, waiting for it to pick up a little bit more and a little bit more. Then you have to slow down again and start all over, start picking it up again . . .
It’s had so many breakdowns: I’ve blown it up twice. My brother blew up the engine on the way to a job interview. My sister-in-law caught it on fire. We’ve all pushed it. It dies and we bring it back and it dies. Years ago, my husband was planning to fix it up a little bit and left a spray-paint can in the back that exploded and the whole inside turned silver. But we always get it fixed up again—we have fixed The Ghia with coat hangers! We want The Ghia to just keep living. In defense of The Ghia, it is not the problem, it’s us drivers.
