Thought Balloons by Don MacPherson "Wheels" There's been Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and the General Lee. Most folks recognize the Mystery Machine, and the side-to-side red light on the front of KITT separates it from other sleek black sports cars. But the most famous car in the world has its roots in comic books. The Batmobile has had more designs than I have pairs of underwear, but each incarnation is unmistakeable. It is the ultimate in cool cars, and its arsenal of weapons and automotive improvements spawned a plethora of imitators. Superman got a Super-Mobile in the 1970s (fighting Amazo in Action Comics, for the record), and even Spider-Man dabbled briefly with a Spider-Buggy. Such wannabe wheels didn't take, of course. Still, the Batmobile has made it clear what a life-saving asset a car can be. Even I've got my own specially designed automotive accessory. It's got a cool comic-book name too: the Phoenix. It's an '83 Pontiac Phoenix, to be precise. Same thing as the Citation, only with a different -- and in my case, apt -- name. Now, my car's not much to look at. Or listen to. And it smells funny. But I can say without the least bit of exaggeration that it has likely saved my life on countless occasions. (From The Fourth Rail legal department: statement may not be true.) When I'm driving the Phoenix, nobody messes with me. People scatter when it approaches, as they fear some kind of huge meteor, atom bomb or tank -- you know, loud thing -- is on its way to dole out apocalyptic levels of pain. Its sonic properties also ensure I attract the attention of local law enforcement officials, thereby surrounding me with allies and some extra muscle should I encounter trouble. The Phoenix also boasts a number of security features, the most obvious of which is its appearance. A superficial glance will lead even the most experienced of auto thieves -- not to mention the least experienced -- to dismiss it outright as a target. And should they decide to take a look at the interior, they'll be even more put off, with the fabric on the ceiling drooping almost enough to distract anyone foolhardy enough to drive it. However, should a perp decide he needs a transmission for his mom's '84 Citation, he may opt to speed off with my super-car. He'll soon regret it. Imagine him hot-wiring the car -- or using the keys I've absent-mindedly left in the ignition -- and driving off to some secret garage to strip it down for parts. Chances are it'll be dark, and needing to consult a map or while fiddling with the tape deck (which only plays properly on one side), the thief reaches up to turn on the overhead light. A painful jolt of electricity tears through his body like a spoiled burrito, incapacitating him, or at least forcing him to suck on his fingers. That's when he realizes that there is nothing but exposed wiring where the light should be. But still he continues on his way, unaware the car is filling with knockout gas. It could be coming from the exhaust, or the upholstery, or the half-eaten chicken-salad sandwich I'd forgotten all about under the seat. Soon, the vapors and the scent are too much for him, and he's overwhelmed. He's either forced from the car or he succumbs. The Batmobile can do a lot of things, but it can't do what my Phoenix does. Sadly, the end of an era (in this case, a year, give or take a couple of months) is upon me, as it is time to retire my not-so faithful automotive sidekick. She's on her last legs. I've already found a new partner, though. I call it "'94 Buick." Don MacPherson recently drove on the Highway to Hell. Turns out there's a toll. Email Don MacPherson comments about this column, or discuss it on the Fourth Rail message board.