It seemed like a jolt out of nowhere when my car hydroplaned on the freeway a few weeks ago, slamming into the median and causing my rims to bend like wilted flowers. Sadly, this was no accident.
It was a symptom.
It was yet another sign that my poor car had been driven further than God and General Motors ever intended it to go. You can only cheat death so many times. The failing electrical system, the fuel pump, the heater core, the radiator and the numerous dents and dings from misaligned tie-rods and whacked-out shocks… The Black Light could no longer handle city driving with the ease of it’s youth.
But, I held on. I willed another chunk of debt onto the back of my automobile and in a week, it was back on the road again.
Then, it shuddered.
The blood-stained cough of consumption for a car like mine — slipping transmission. This wasn’t a valve, or some broken mirror or even a delicate aluminum radiator that seems so scary when it boils over.
This repair is twice the value of my car on the low end (assuming good resale value in the first place). When the mechanic made the diagnosis, I paused for a few minutes and then made the aching decision to pull the plug.
“It’ll still run,” he told me. “But it will get worse.”
Today, for the first time since I got my vehicle over eight years ago, I drove away from the shop with no intentions of fixing my car.
This isn’t the end, but it is drawing near. I’m researching loans, lease options and trim levels. When the right deal comes along, I’ll putter up to the lot with my once-valiant traveling companion and trade him in for something newer, flashier and in possesion of a warranty.
Until then, I’ll keep driving, quietly cursing the jiggles and shakes as the gears shift. I’ll think of the good times — 25 hours from Vancouver to Reno… Midnight at the Oklahoma border… 2000 miles to California — and I’ll rev through the rough patches until the second gear catches and my car roars forward, growling to the world that he ain’t dead yet.
