I've found that vehicles name themselves, and I have very little say in the matter. Sometimes they don't say anything, and sometimes they shout out a name so clearly and forcefully that there's nothing that you can do but accept it.
The first car I ever picked out was Fred. He was boxy and practical and reliable, and that was just his name. Other vehicles have had names or not, depending. The BMW never did.
My beautiful blue Triumph named himself shortly after I got him. I was heading up 280 when I hit the next notch on the break-in cycle, so I whacked the throttle open. The bike took off like a bike out of hell, and then turned around and whispered his name to me. From then on he was Booh.
The PLHB and I went out to Manteca today to rescue my BMW. As we were swooping over the Altamont Pass, the car was slinking along the road like Jessica Rabbit on a piano. "This car is definitely female", I announced, and explained why. He suggested that her name was Jessica, but I knew that wasn't right. So I waited.
As I was heading for home, she told me her name. It's Ms. April. Why? She's my April poker winnings. She's topless. April is about the start of convertible season out here, if there is such a thing. And she's way too smooth and seductive to be a Miss, so it has to be Ms.
O.Y. How nice am I? I let the PLHB drive the new car back, and I drove the rickety old BMW.