(This was written in late July, 2003. I know one or two people have seen it, or at least read excerpts, but somehow this never escaped to the "musings" page. )
Well, it’s almost official. I have to make an appointment with a notary, but by the end of the day on Friday, I’ll be back to having just the one car. And this time, it’ll be just a car.
I’ve been driving my pickup since September 1989; just 16 months after moving to Nevada. It was one of the last 89s on the lot and because price was an issue, it didn’t have a whole lot of features — no radio, no extended cab, no four-wheel drive and no air conditioning. The no A/C wasn’t really a problem until I moved to Virginia in 1994, and even then, it wasn’t a big problem. Going to work, I’d just use the 2-60 air-conditioner instead, meaning that I opened both windows and drove 60mph.
This truck and I have been through a lot together. I’ve slept in the back the night before the Great Reno Balloon Race so I could see the Dawn Patrol at 5am, and again on a camping trip when rain started flooding my tent. During the big snow storm six or seven years ago, I filled the back of the truck with snow and was able to go places where the four-wheel drive SUVs couldn’t, and if all the parking spaces were full of snow, I’d park on a snowdrift with the front end two feet higher than the back.
Over time, I discovered that at times having a friend with a pickup truck seems like all the excuse people need in order to decide it’s time to move to a new house or apartment. And it’s not just furniture that got hauled either. Along with the ordinary items such as firewood and wood chips, I’ve also been called upon to transport a huge pile of toys that were being donated to Toys for Tots, and parts of a spaceship bridge mockup.
There are lots of other memories in that truck — 203,700 miles worth. All with just one owner. Still, nothing lasts forever.
My truck is nearly fourteen years old and the mileage on it is more than eight times the circumference of the Earth. It’s still running like a champ, needing little more than an oil change and the occasional tune up. But the signs of its age are starting to appear. Not quite two years ago, the water pump died, stranding me in the middle of nowhere, 90 miles from home. Last winter, the head gasket had to be replaced. Four months ago, it became apparent that the clutch was approaching its replacement point for a third time. The body’s beginning to show more and more rust and even with the new muffler, the exhaust is getting louder and louder.
At the end of May, after much research and deliberation, I took advantage of the prevailing low interest rates and bought a new car. Not another pickup, but an actual car. It’s a Honda Civic with a hybrid gasoline-electric engine. It’s exactly what I need for commuting to work every day, gets excellent mileage, seats four adults (five if they’re friends), and even has air-conditioning and cup holders. It’s not a pickup, but it’ll do quite nicely.
There is a happy ending to this though. My original plan was to donate the truck to charity. I probably wouldn’t see it again, but at least it could live out the rest of its days helping someone else get to work, haul gravel, and help their friends move. It turns out that life has other plans. My next door neighbors have a son who needs a car, so they’ve decided to buy my truck. The truck will continue helping someone get to work and everything else in life, but I’ll still get to see it; maybe I’ll even borrow it sometime when I need to haul gravel and let my neighbor drive the shiny new car.
I can live with that.