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Monday, May 2, 2005

The Miles We’ve Travelled

One April day in 1997, my sister and I arrived home from a Youth in Government conference to find an unfamiliar car parked outside our garage. It was bright red. Screamin’ red, actually. “Corsica” it said on the back.

My dad paid $6,000 for it, it smelled like smoke from the previous owner, the cooling vents were broken from day one, and I shared it with my sister. I was 15 years old, and it was my first car.

Throughout high school, that Chevy took my sister and I everywhere. We fought over who got to drive it, and I think my sister got the short end of the stick more than I. In college, though, it was all mine, as my sister got an identical Corsica, only light blue instead of red.

The Corsica has endured the potholes of Michigan, a humid summer in Orlando, the streets of Chicago and the cold of Minneapolis.

I’ve made out with both boys and girls in the front seat, back seat and trunk.

To be sure, it has taken its share of abuse. Its hood bears a baseball-sized dent from when I parked it too close to the field in high school. Its front bumper had to be repainted after I hit it with a running snowblower while trying to free it from the snow in our driveway. The right rear bumper bears a dent and a scrape from a poor parallel parker in Chicago. A month ago I walked out of work to see a huge pool of antifreeze underneath the engine. The rear driver’s side door is rusting. Two weeks ago it had a window smashed in by someone seeking valuables.

Today, it has nearly 139,000 miles on it. It sucks down oil and antifreeze like I suck down Gatorade after a good workout. It smells like burning belts. It vibrates when I brake. The heater blows out only cold air. The driver’s seat is ripped from too many entrances and exits. But still it takes me from point A to point B, a senile but loyal friend who refuses to give up.

Tonight, though… I don’t know how to say it… Tonight I’m retiring it, putting it out of its misery, sending it to the salvage yard in the sky, simply saying goodbye. As I write this, I get a little sentimental. Maybe even more than a little sentimental. Maybe I’ve even shed a tear or two. But hell, the Corsica has been with me longer than most friends have.

But there’s no turning back now. In one hour I’m turning the keys over to the dealer and getting in my 2001 Volvo S40. I’m afraid I won’t know what to do with such luxury. Until now, leather seats, sunroofs, CD players, turbo-charged engines, keyless entry, cruise control and little wipers on the headlights have all been unknowns to me. Like a homeless kid adopted by Bill Gates, I’m sure I’ll feel out of place.

Like with all deaths, though, I’ll grieve and then adjust. The Corsica will not be gone. It will always hold a special place in my heart. A place where rust and potholes and red lights don’t exist, where it can zip along without interruption, a red streak of speed and grace.

Posted by Aaron on May 2, 2005 4:55 PM