Dad’s 68 Impala ate fan belts on a regular basis. There was always a pile of spares in the back. Then the water pump died. He fixed it and the car never trashed another belt.
Us kids, the seven of us, used to argue about who got to sit in the way back seat facing backwards till the floor rusted away. Then we had to lay on towels arranged like uncomfortable Tetris blocks.
That car took us from Cape Cod to Montreal.
The car is gone. Dad is gone. Seven of the unused fan belts sit rotting in my basement.