Subaru Car Quotes

The new MX-5 is like the new Ford Mondeo and the Subaru Legacy Outback. It is one of those cars that's absolutely brilliant ... and nobody buys it. You never see one on the road.

Now. Put it in forward.” “Okay, just don’t hurt Yoko.” “Yoko?” “My car.” “You named your car Yoko? As in Ono?” “You have a better name?” “How about Subaru? “I’m shifting!

There’s a dead man in my car. A man. Dead. In the driver’s seat of my Subaru. This is not at all on-brand for Subaru. Subarus aren’t killers’ cars. Jeep Wranglers are.

It’s important to keep your options open. It’s important to live and not get so hung up on the past. The past is called the past for a reason. If you are constantly looking behind you, your eyes aren’t on the road ahead. You don’t drive a car that way, so why would you live your life that way? Isn’t life more important than driving that beat up Subaru?

cabin for a long moment. Just looking at it made her smile. It was tiny and whimsical – a cedar sided A-frame with a bright green roof and purple trim, complete with a purple star at the point of the A-frame. It sat in a small open area amongst spruce and alder. The hill tumbled down behind it, offering a wide-open view of Kachemak Bay. She’d been in Diamond Creek, Alaska for almost three years. The sun was rising behind the mountains across the bay, streaks of gold and pink reaching into the sky and filtering through the wispy clouds that sat above the mountains this morning. The air was cool and crisp, typical for an Alaskan summer morning. When the sun was high, the chill would dissipate. A faded blue Subaru pulled into the driveway. Susie climbed out of her car, grabbed some fishing gear and walked to Emma’s truck. “Morning! Sorry I’m late,” Susie said. Emma reached over and took a fishing rod out of Susie’s hands.

People strut and swagger in front of others, but rarely alone. These are social gestures. Walking, the slowest form of travel, is the quickest route to our more authentic selves. We can't return to some long-lost paradise that probably never was. But we can walk. We can walk to work. We can walk our daughter to school. We can walk alone, to nowhere in particular on a crisp and breezy autumn afternoon. We walk to forget. We walk to forget the cranky boss, the spat with the spouse, the pile of unpaid bills, the flashing warning light in your Subaru, indicating either that the tire pressure is low or the car is on fire. We walk to forget, if only momentarily, a world that is "too much with us," as William Wordsworth, another fine walker, put it. We walk to forget ourselves, too. I know I do. The surplus fifteen pounds resistant to every diet known to man, the recidivist nasal hair, the decade-old blemish that suddenly, for reasons known only to it, has decided to self-actualize on the crown of my bald head, spreading like an inkblot. All forgotten when I walk. Walking is democratic. Barring a disability, anyone can walk. The wealthy walker has no advantage over the impoverished one. Rousseau, despite his literary success, always saw himself as "the son of a worker," what we now call blue-collar. People like that didn't ride in fancy carriages. They walked. They walked as I do now: attentively, one step at a time, relishing the sturdiness, and the springiness, too, of serious earth.

In the early 1980s, two American scientists, Thomas McMahon and John Tyler Bonner, looked at nearly 40 engines of all kinds (automotive, air, marine) whose power and weight ranged, respectively, from about 330 watts to 21 megawatts and from 135 grams to 102.3 tons, and found that their maximum power output scaled at nearly the same rate as engine mass.32 A recent study of four-stroke car engines, including Ford, Honda, Kawasaki, and Subaru designs, confirmed this scaling by finding that their peak power output scales with 0.95th power of the engine size.

saw the red Subaru XT coupe pull out from the curb in a hurry, half a block ahead. And because it accelerated so fast, rear wheels spinning and squealing as it started to pick up speed, I took a good look at the car, and the man alone inside,

★ BOOK OF THE WEEK ★ SWITCHED FORTUNES John Rabe £7.99 Austin Macauley Making a change from the manuals and the marque history books, this engaging thriller takes on added impetus when the author shares his knowledge of cars with the reader. Author John Rabe is a self-confessed car nut and has written a traditional adventure story around racing driver Kevin Richardson, who gets involved in international intrigue but still manages to put in a good performance on the track. So, rather than just getting in a car and gunning it, we are told: ‘The Subaru’s engine started immediately, the uneven beat of the horizontally opposed flat four cylinder engine was music to the ears.’ Think about the exciting and compelling thriller style of the late Dick Francis, but with cars instead of horses. Great stuff. DB

was gone when I arrived at Sanchez & Sons, but the man in the Subaru was parked a car-length away from a tiny white taqueria stand with an easy view of the tow yard on the opposite side of the street. He was slumped behind the wheel exactly as Pike described, wearing shades as if they made him invisible, and a stylish gray porkpie hat. Three scruffy, dusty men who looked like they worked hard were lined up for tacos. They ignored the hat man, and he ignored them. He watched the tow yard. Sanchez

Okay, then . . .” I stand up. “It’s been real,” I tell David flatly. “Yeah,” he says. “Later.” Ethan has leapt to his feet and joined us. “I’ll walk you guys to your car,” he says. “That’s really nice, but you don’t have to,” I say. “We’re parked a couple of blocks away.” “My brother said I should.” “Yes, I did.” David gets up, jamming his phone in his pocket. “Come on. Let’s accompany these two lovely ladies to their car.” I catch a whiff of sarcasm, but the other two are oblivious to it. Ethan resumes his X-Men discourse, but the rest of us are silent, and the walk feels endless. We come to a halt at our Subaru hatchback. “This is yours?” David says, like he’s surprised. “My mom’s.” “Where’s your car?” “Nonexistent?” “Seriously? I pictured you always cruising around in some hot girl car like a Porsche or something.” “A ‘hot girl car’? What does that even mean? That the girl is hot or the car is?” He flushes. “I don’t know why I used that word. I never do.” “Hot or girl?” I ask sweetly.

soppy smile, but he couldn't help it.  "I'm so glad," he said simply. "Clara's expecting pancakes," Patricia reminded him.  She was so delightfully down-to-earth. Lee swept up his shirt.  "Yes! Pancakes!"  He would stick to the original plan.  A ring with her pancakes, and he'd have Clara there for the moment; all of the most precious people in his life together at once. He rehearsed the moment in his head as they walked down the stairs to the kitchen, and imagined the words and Clara's laughter as he mixed up the pancake batter and heated the griddle.  He was wrapped up in his busy mind until he brought the first stack of cakes to the table–and found Clara setting it for two. "Where is Miss Patricia?" he asked, suddenly aware that she wasn't there, that he couldn't sense her nearby. Clara looked at him with big blue eyes, alarmed at his surprise.  "She drove away!" Lee let the plate of pancakes fall the last few inches to the table and land with a clatter.  "When?  Where?" "In her car!" Clara supplied helpfully.  "She said she had to go." Lee ran the distance to the front door in a matter of seconds, but the car was long gone, tracks in the snow showing her hasty escape.  He stood there with the door open, cold air swirling over his bare feet.  The sound of a car near the tree-shrouded bottom of the driveway gave him a moment of hope, but it moved away down the road.  He'd read her wrong.  Finding out he was a shifter had changed her mind about him.  Mate or not, she didn't want the complication that he was in her life.  This was their goodbye then; a cold, empty driveway and uneaten pancakes.  Lee stood there until Clara drew him back inside by the knees, complaining of the cold that he didn't even feel anymore. PATRICIA FLEW DOWN the driveway much faster than she knew she should, trusting her Subaru to stick to the road and power her through the wet, drifting snow. "I ought to have waited for the snowplows,

Cops are generally color-blind when it comes to brown cars, and this Subaru is too boring for even a soccer mom. It looks like it was made for people into competitive tire filling.

They came in two teams, leapfrogging out of the city, Isaacs and Ireland in a plain Toyota van and Shapiro and Littell in a four-wheel-drive Subaru. Greg Isaacs got out of the lead car about twenty-five yards from the big gate and immediately started through the thick woods up the mountain. At thirty-eight he was in the best physical shape of the four CIA legmen, so he’d been volunteered for this part of the mission. The others waited on the main road, one car well above the gate, the other retreating to the highway at the bottom of the valley about four miles away. Isaacs carried a powerful pair of binoculars, a sound amplifier with a small parabolic pickup dish, and a walkie-talkie. The first hundred yards were relatively easy, but then the slope sharply steepened, and until he finally made it to the crest of the defile Isaacs wasn’t sure he could do it without mountain-climbing equipment. At the top he found himself at one end of a long ledge, the mountains rising in the back and a sheer cliff plunging five or six hundred feet in the front. A big house was perched at the edge of the dropoff about two hundred yards away. Isaacs raised his binoculars and saw McGarvey seated with another man on a veranda. Isaacs keyed his walkie-talkie. “I have him.