We name the things that matter.
We’ve been naming the things that carry us for centuries. Ships were named to ensure safe passage, to give something intangible like fate a target to bless or curse. They are the first commonly recorded named objects because they were crucial to survival, commerce, and mythology. Horses were named because they were companions, often the only ones on long trails. Wagons, bicycles, locomotives, planes... if it moved and mattered, it got a name. Names give them a penchant for stories. Stories make them real. It gives them legacy.
This Volvo is named Gertrude. Not because it's cute, or quirky, or "just a thing we do." It's named Gertrude because the man who built it, Dan Maly, needed to name it after someone who meant something. His grandmother. She had thirteen kids. She held the family together. She was tough, and full of grit.
Gertrude the car is a 1983 Volvo 242 Turbo Intercooler. One of around 500 homologation-spec cars Volvo built to satisfy FIA’s Group A requirements. Group A was FIA’s touring car formula that demanded manufacturers build road-going versions of their race cars - at least 500 of them - to compete. Volvo answered with the 242 Turbo. It looked like a box, but hit like a... brick. Backed by the Eggenberger Motorsport team, the Volvo 240 Turbo shocked the motorsport world in 1985 by winning the European Touring Car Championship outright. The car was driven by the likes of Thomas Lindström and Gianfranco Brancatelli, who consistently outpaced the BMW 635CSi and Alfa Romeo GTV6. That year, the 240 racked up six wins and multiple podiums, and clinched the title despite being up against much flashier and supposedly faster competition. It was, in every sense, the underdog. A brick with a grudge. And it left BMWs in its wake. In 1985, the motorsport press dubbed it the "car to beat." And they were right.
Dan's car isn't bone stock. It's not a museum piece. It's a restomod. One he built in his garage with tools handed down from his father and his grandfather. When it came time to paint it, he kicked the Firebird out of the garage, hung plastic, and sprayed it himself. "I see the flaws in the paint," he says. "Others might see them too. That's fine. I love her because she's not perfect."
Under the hood is the original B21FT block, the holy redblock. Cast iron. Overbuilt. Named for the red paint they wore from the factory. These engines are legends not because they made big power out of the box, but because they don't die when you throw a bunch of boost at them. Dan kept the block but for better head flow he gave it a new top end from a '97 940 Turbo. A 16T turbo, blue injectors, and a four-speed with overdrive keep it moving. It's hybridized, he says, "but it works." And it does.
There's five years of his life in the car. And if you listen for the passion he has for the car, you can hear every single one of them in his tone. And Gertrude? It isn't just a name. It's a badge of honor. It's respect.
We used to name cars more often. Back when you kept them long enough to trust them. Back when breakdowns didn't mean replacements. Back when you knew what was under the hood, not just what was due on the lease. But as cars became more disposable, more anonymous, the names went away. You don't name something you plan to flip. You name something you live with.
Gertrude isn't only a car. She's a memory with a key.
And she's probably going to outlast all of us.
Images courtesy of Volvo Car Corporation
