Right before we moved out to the Island, my dad owned a car with a manual transmission. He was an absolute pro at driving it—smooth, confident, totally in command—but he decided that the next car he bought would be an automatic. He wanted something easier for my mom, who was a brand‑new and very nervous driver (she was a city girl), the kind who happily handed over the keys and let my dad take the wheel whenever possible.
So, he bought a Buick LeSabre. My mom took one look at it, fell instantly in love, and christened it Bessie. And just like that, Bessie became part of the family.
When we were first married—many moons ago—my husband decided he absolutely had to have a car with a manual transmission. He was a true enthusiast, the kind who loved the feel of every gear shift. Then he saw the Subaru Justy commercial featuring the Scandinavian ski team (forever remembered as “the Swedish ski team”), showing off the Justy’s tiny size, feather‑light weight, and surprising snow‑climbing grit. That was it. He was sold.
So, he went for the 5‑speed, 4WD model. His little mountain goat of a car and it was a G.O.A.T.
To this day, I’m still not sure whether he bought that Justy because of the Scandinavian ski team or simply because he’s always had a soft spot for Subarus. In the end, it didn’t really matter. Not long after he brought the car home, Washington, DC got walloped by a major snowstorm.
That morning, we’d driven the Justy to the Metro parking lot and hopped on the train to get to work. By midafternoon, the storm hit hard, and the entire city tried to commute home at once. Cars were slipping, sliding, crawling—everyone was having a miserable time.
Everyone except us.
That little Justy zipped right past the poor cars slogging through the snow, climbing over drifts like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment. It was the one day the commercial felt absolutely, undeniably true.
He was very adamant that I learn how to drive the car and I was all for it. It looked like fun. One Sunday morning he drove to a large parking lot and told me to drive. After fifteen minutes he said, "ok let's hit the road" So off we went to this little brunch place we liked. The drive was a piece of cake, and we were both pretty happy with my accomplishment. Then we got back in the car, and I started to drive us home. I went to exit onto the main road. The exit was on an incline, and I started to go but then hesitated for a second. The guy behind me slammed into me. Let's just say I never drove a manual car again.
The number of cars with manual transmissions keeps shrinking. In the 2026 model year, only 24 new car models still offer a stick shift. The die‑hard enthusiasts are hanging on—gravitating toward sporty coupes, hot hatches, and the occasional rugged off‑roader—but the trend is unmistakable. And as a Boomer whose first experience driving a manual was… let’s say less than triumphant, the rise of automatics is perfectly fine by me.
I’m curious, though: how many of you still drive a manual transmission? Weigh in and let’s see who’s keeping the tradition alive.
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