A beloved companion nears the end of the road
We had so much fun together
By Mark W. Mayfield
It's finally happening. After 218,000 miles, my trusty ol' pickup truck is running out of time.
I first saw the dark spot on the driveway when I was replacing her fuel filter. "Are you feeling OK?" I nonchalantly asked, not wanting to alarm her. "Oh, I'm just fine," she nonchalantly replied, not wanting to alarm me. She's had minor oil leaks before, but I easily fixed them with a $2 seal or a $1 gasket. This one is ominously different. The oil is coming from an inaccessible place deep within her aging engine. It's obviously a terrible ailment that will only grow worse.
I've recently noticed other worrisome signs. When I start her in the morning, she makes a nasty knocking sound. She's never done that before. Two weeks ago, as I gently accelerated to highway speed, she sputtered, coughed and backfired for no apparent reason. And last night, as we made our weekly trip to a nearby store for chocolate-chip ice cream (her favorite), she stalled at two intersections.
Her poor performance isn't the only problem. Her appearance has also deteriorated. Her once-shiny paint is peeling and chipping. Her grille is loose and crooked. Her windshield is cracked in three places. Her doors are covered with dings and dents, and her stain-resistant fabric seats are showing the wear and tear of thousands of miles of butt friction.
Her mechanic said that lots of TLC (tune-ups, lubrication and cash) might extend her life to 250,000 miles or more. But I'm not concerned about the quantity of her remaining miles; I'm concerned about the quality of those miles.
I know she doesn't want to spend her final days in humiliation and pain, unable to keep up with newer, sleeker, faster trucks, many of which are owned by my 16-year-old daughter's spoiled classmates. (Important note for parents who purchase brand new vehicles for their teenagers: Please stop it! You are making life miserable for a certain parent who believes that teenagers should actually earn their first cars. Thank you.)
A sympathetic friend suggested giving her a new engine, but I don't like that idea. I once purchased a new engine for my wife's car, and it was a huge mistake. A safe, dependable, happy-go-lucky vehicle suddenly became a belligerent, mechanic-loving troublemaker that deserved to be stolen, vandalized and burned by a gang of violent juvenile delinquents. (If you are a violent juvenile delinquent who wants to earn an easy $20, please contact me immediately after reading this column.)
I've tried to prepare myself for this inevitable day. I've told myself that most pickups don't live as long as their owners and that I should be grateful for 218,000 original miles of happiness. But right now, I can't think of anything except the great times we shared.
I remember driving her from the lot when she was brand new. I remember how she purred with pleasure when I shifted her into overdrive for the first time. I remember that funny face she made whenever I loaded her bed with horse manure. We had so much fun together.
Several years ago, after a magnificent evening drive through the countryside, her playful mood suddenly turned somber. Out of the blue, she began to talk about "the end of the road." She made me promise that I would never allow her to suffer needlessly. She made me swear that I would never trade her in for a fancy SUV or sell her to a teenage punk who would paint her orange and torture her with rap music. (She prefers smooth jazz and soft rock.)
She begged me to someday park her under her favorite tree and permanently disconnect her spark plugs. How could I refuse her request? She was a heavenly vision of moonlit loveliness. The sweet aroma of her warm fuel-injected engine was intoxicating. The twinkle of her perfectly proportioned headlights was hypnotic. Her flawless metallic silver complexion was irresistible. She was the most beautiful truck on the road, and I would've promised her anything.
But some promises are easy to make and impossible to keep. I don't want her to suffer, but I can't bear the thought of losing her. Why is life so hard? Why?! (At this point, I break down and sob loudly.)
Sorry about that. I haven't been myself lately.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to give my truck another quart of oil. It seems to go right through her.
Mark W. Mayfield (markmayfield@mindspring.com) doesn't really want to hear from violent juvenile delinquents.
Los Gatos, California Since 1881
