I was perusing the latest issue of Hemmings Motor News over breakfast recently when I stumbled across an item that nearly had me choking on my Fiber One. The Arizona collectible car auction coverage included the following listing:

“1963 VW Microbus camper, professionally restored to a high standard.” The elderly camper had crossed the block at a mind-bending $217,800! I was stunned. Has the lowly VW microbus, rolling icon of peace, love and flower power finally puttered its way into the stratosphere of automotive collectability? Apparently so. I steadied my nerves with a stiff belt of Metamucil and drifted off on a cloud of halcyon memory.

For folks who came of age during the “Summer of Love,” glimpsing a vintage VW Microbus is like bumping into a long lost pal you haven’t seen since he got busted for pot at a Grateful Dead concert half a lifetime ago. But, as the photo accompanying the Hemmings’ listing confirmed, this was no mere chance encounter; it was more like running into that super groovy chick in the embroidered peasant blouse who, um, yes, well now where was I?

Oh yeah, about that ’63 VW bus. Mine had been the red and cream, 21-window model with the pop-up canvas top and built-in kitchenette. That’s the one Barbara and I drove from Maine to Colorado in the summer of ’72.

Few vehicles could have delivered more smiles per mile. For starters, the “cuteness factor” was totally off the charts. And there’s a good reason for that. Those classic “bugs” needed all the cuteness they could muster, since as anyone who owned one will tell you, other than cuteness, they had few positive attributes.

OK, I’ll admit that at a time when Detroit was cranking out massive chrome bedecked road barges with glossy ad campaigns proudly trumpeting “road hugging weight” as a desirable selling point, the lowly VW was a breath of fresh air.

The minimalist VW print ads of the era (“Think small” and “How does the snowplow driver get to the snowplow?”) were genuinely clever and highly memorable. Plus, Volkswagens were cheap to buy, easy to park gas misers. Beyond that rather short list, unfortunately, things went downhill precipitously.

Speaking of downhill, a well-honed “downhill strategy” was a critical driving skill to master when attempting to pilot a VW “bug” around the hilly back roads of coastal Maine. The basic technique was simple enough. In order to have a snowball’s chance in Hades of cresting that steep grade ahead at anything faster than a jog you’d have first needed “get up a head of steam” while descending the previous hill.

Given that the “power” generated by the wheezing lump of clattering iron occupying what ought to have been the diminutive import’s “trunk” was roughly equivalent to that of a modern Vespa scooter, gravity was indeed a friend when attempting to maintain the Beetle’s forward motion.

Another common Beetle trait, which has mercifully been forgotten in the mists’ euphoric recall was the little nipper’s alarming addiction to Pennsylvania crude. “Fill up the oil and check the gas!” quickly became the rallying cry of dedicated VW jockeys. Before heading off to Grande Junction, Barbie and I purchased a half-dozen five-gallon cans of discount 30-weight in the hope that it would keep the “little engine that couldn’t” happy until we got to the Rockies.

We’d already used up nearly half of our allotment when we stopped for gas at some little burg in upstate New York. After pouring in the obligatory two quarts of oil, I fortuitously managed to leave the oil filler cap on top of the gas pump. Fortuitously? I’ll say. From that moment on our cheery little Microbus went on the wagon. I’m talking total abstinence, consuming not another drop of oil the remainder of the journey. I have no idea how or why that happened but I suspect that sort of metaphysical hijinks may have played some small part in the Deadhead’s traditional love affair with the Microbus.

That bus did take us all the way to Colorado without breaking down but it was pretty much on life support when I sold it to a dope dealer in Boulder who claimed all he wanted out of it was “one more trip out to Mexico and back, man.” I hope he made it. And I smile at the notion that maybe, just maybe, the VW that gaveled out at six figures was in fact our old bug, restored once more to its former glory.

If so I have a tip for the new owner: If you’re planning on putting a few miles on your new purchase, I’d recommend removing the oil filler cap first.