He called her Betsy; because that was the only name suitable for a young man’s car. She was red. Not his first choice of colors, but he had been in the market for a used car, and beggars can’t be choosers.
Despite the color, and the rust damage, he loved that car. Betsy didn’t have power steering, but he liked that about her. Her clutch was stiff. You could shift gears like the crack of a whip, and he often did.
His dad told him the car was an accident waiting to happen, but that just made her more exciting.