I was a little disheartened when the color trademark post got deleted, so I figured I’d share something close to my heart instead—my 2003 VW Beetle, affectionately named Betty the Bug. She’s a rare gem, one of only 2,000 made worldwide in “Snap Orange,” and just one of 1,500 automatics. To my knowledge, she’s one of the few true Snap Orange Beetles still out there. She’s got a 2.0L 4-cylinder FWD engine, and despite having over 244,000 miles, she’s still running on her original engine and transmission. No rebuilds. No swaps. Just one replaced brake caliper. She’s a survivor.
Cosmetically, she’s a little worn, but mechanically she’s held up far beyond expectations. Volkswagen estimated a 10-year lifespan for this model, and Betty’s outlived that by over 100,000 miles. According to Kelley Blue Book, she’s worth about $450 now, which feels unfair given her legacy. But I don’t care. I’m autistic, and I tend to hyperfixate on things that matter to me—Betty is one of them. She’s parked in the corner of our driveway right now, waiting patiently. She needs a rack, pinion, tune-up, timing belt, and fluid flushes. She’ll get them. I’m not letting her go.
My husband, a former master diesel mechanic, just bought himself a 2006 VW TDI Jetta. He’s planning to buy a hoist soon, which will help us get Betty back in shape. He chose diesel for ease of maintenance, and I plan to follow suit with my next car. It just makes sense—he knows these engines inside and out. In the meantime, Betty waits. She’s not flashy, but she’s mine. And she’s earned her place in our little fleet. She’s more than a car—she’s a piece of my story.
I’ve always loved older vehicles. There’s something comforting about their quirks, their imperfections, their resilience. If you’ve got an old VW—or even something like a 1967 4-door Chevrolet Impala—I’d love to see it. I think there’s potential for dull besties for life. I don’t post often, and I’m not great at replying quickly. I’m a social hermit most of the time, thanks to autism and ADHD. But when I do connect, it’s genuine. I love seeing what others treasure, especially when it’s something that’s been loved long past its prime.
Betty’s not just a car. She’s a time capsule. She’s been with me through phases, through moves, through quiet mornings and chaotic afternoons. Every scratch tells a story. Every mile is a memory. I know she’s not worth much on paper, but she’s priceless to me. And that’s what matters. I don’t need her to be perfect—I just need her to be mine. And when she’s back on the road, I’ll be right there with her, windows down, Snap Orange gleaming in the sun.
So here’s to Betty the Bug. To old cars, quiet obsessions, and the joy of keeping something alive because it means something. If you’ve got a story like mine, I’d love to hear it. Just don’t expect a reply tomorrow—I’ll probably be outside, staring at a hoist, dreaming of diesel engines and dull besties.
