At a certain point in my life, I developed the habit of naming my cars. They were always old cars, and they had old lady names.
When I lived in Germany I had an old orange Opel Cadet wagon named Peachy, and she was the ZORGINA band car. We drove her all over Europe, and she was near death for years, and just when it seemed that she would finally go, we drove her from Vienna, via Basel, to the middle of France. It was a good 15 hour drive, and the engine died every time we stopped. So we stayed on the Autoroute all day, parking on hills when we had to pee, and got to the little village where we were staying in the middle of the night (but not before we got lost and stopped to ask directions on flat ground, and teenagers had to push-start us at 3am.) We got to the hotel parking lot, she died, and we went to bed. And the next day, she would not start at all. Not even when pushed. Not even when pushed down a really huge hill. Not even after the entire village pushed her down, and then up, and then down, and then up, and then down the huge hill. She wouldn't start. She had gotten us to our beds, and had given up the ghost. So the village tow truck came and towed her away. I expected to never see her again, but it turned out that all she needed was a $50 part, and we drove her back to Vienna a few days later.
She finally got ravaged on the streets of Berlin. A friend was taking care of her while I was in the States, and noticed that she would not start, so he looked under the hood and found that much of her engine had been stolen. So he called a tow truck to take her to the dump. The towtruck trussed her up and dragger her off, and as they turned the corner, her wheels all fell off and rolled away in 4 different directions.
That was the last image of Peachy. She was a good, orange, Opel. I still have her key.