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The automakers are trying to entice me by stuffing their products full of the latest technology - things like on-board wifi, touch-screen displays and silky-voiced "assistants." Sadly, it's all for naught.

As a recovering vintage Volkswagen addict, I still find myself gazing fondly on those rusty relics of the Third Reich. Exactly why they hold such a special place in my heart, I cannot say.

Most likely, this all goes back to my first sexual encounter, which took place in the back of a yellow squareback sedan. Parked in one of the scenic turnouts along Trail Ridge Road high in Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park, it was a magical convergence of nature, libido and machine. The moonlight reflecting off the snow-capped peaks, the lights of Estes Park twinkling below and the bold yet unassuming lines of the minimalist interior combined to leave an indelible imprint on me. If memory serves, a woman was also present, but that seems almost inconsequential now.

I was particularly enamored of the microbus, having owned a total of four. Despite a variety of mechanical quirks, they fell into a category that VW owners refer to, with great optimism, as "daily drivers." Typically the term is held to a pretty loose interpretation. So long as the vehicle can be started (pushing is allowed), attain a speed that keeps you from being run over by traffic coming up from behind (a stiff tailwind is the vintage Volkswagen driver's best friend, thanks to an engine that produces roughly the same torque as a ceiling fan), and then brought to a stop, the basic criteria have been met. Should things like the heat, windshield wipers and turn signals work, well, that's just icing on the cake.

My first was a two-tone camper - the quintessential "hippie van" - hand painted by its previous owner. To the man's credit, he did use an exterior latex and a short-napped roller. One of my early attempts to tune up the engine resulted in a minor fuel leak. The ensuing fireball was quickly extinguished and my eyebrows grew back in only a few months, but the vehicle was known from that time forward as "The Hindenburg."

Defined as anything Before Radiators, these vintage models are not for the timid. Handling and maneuverability are on par with your basic soap-box derby entry, and often times the road is visible beneath your feet due to a tendency of the floors to rot away like vampire flesh caught in a shaft of sunlight. Every trip requires a stockpile of spare parts, along with the ability to install them at a moment's notice. It's been said that, to fully appreciate the air-cooled driving experience, one must develop a Zen-like acceptance of breakdowns as part of the journey. That and a knack for reaching your "happy place" while being seared by red hot engine parts. Peace, love and pass the metric tools, dude.

Thanks to an intervention where friends forced me to watch Little Miss Sunshine for three days straight, all that remains of my addiction is an old oil stain on the garage floor. I can now say with certainty that I am happy to be driving a vehicle that doesn't require scraping the inside of the windshield during the winter months. But sanity, like sobriety, can be a tenuous thing. If my eyes start to glaze over the next time I pass an old Beetle broken down on the side of the road, just punch me as hard as you can while shouting "Slug Bug" at the top of your lungs. That usually snaps me out of it.

- Curt MacDougall

Curt MacDougall's journey has been unconventional, to say the least, something akin to Forrest Gump's box of chocolates. From airborne traffic reporter to marketing shlub, freelance columnist and TV news producer, the road has never been boring. And through it all there was the need to write, whether it was jokes for a radio morning show, translating "engineer-speak" into layman's English, lighthearted musings in Michigan's second largest daily paper or scripts meant to feed the insatiable news machine. On his blog, Lies Jack Kerouac Told Me, he writes "largely about small matters and smally about great affairs" to steal from James Thurber (another inspiration).