My Truck

So my truck hit 100,000 miles right as I was leaving my office garage. I can say with certainty that I’ve driven over 99,000 of those miles. Maybe even 99,500. Nah, digging through the bar fly banter memory banks, and of Ms. Fire’s endless patience as a chaperone after a long night collecting research, it’s probably closer to 99,000.

I love this truck, so please indulge my blathering.

This is the first vehicle I ever bought myself. By my best estimations, the dealer probably made 50% on the transaction. They’re probably still telling stories about me. Sprayed bed liner - you bet. Undercoating protection – a must have. Gloss coat protection – how could I live without it? My only demand was that they acknowledge the almighty providence of my trade-in, a 1992 4-Runner affectionately called TurboDog. So I smoothly negotiated its trade in value from $2,000 to $2,500, got myself inked up for 5 years at 5.9% financing and we were off to the races.

The fun we’ve had. Oh, I was a little mad at the big guy at first for not speaking up as I was getting bent over the barrel at the dealership, but nothing a few roars of his 5.4 liter Triton V.8 wouldn’t fix. And it’s no understatement to note that those electronic seat warmers saved my ass on a few cold DC mornings. They say a machine can’t think, but I know, absolutely KNOW, that my truck knew the way home from Uno’s in Bethesda to my Casa de Mierda in Herndon.

I don’t pamper him as much as he deserves. He hasn’t been washed in months, but I’m pretty sure he’s OK with that. Oil changes are fewer and further between than recommended. I could feel his suspicion when I installed ‘Lil Bang’s carseat in the middle back seat —ferrying children being women’s work and all. But I think he secretly gets a kick when he activates the automatic air and ‘Lil Bang laughs.

He’s picked up a few scars along the way. A tree branch’s scratch on the side, gone unattended, is starting to show a little sign of rust. Some minor scratches on the roof, received from an overhead parking garage girder the one time I let Ms. Fire drive him to work, are still there. The 2 busted locks earned defending himself from would-be thieves have not been replaced. I leave them there as a reminder to the next set of thieves to not even waste their time trying to breach the fort.

I’ve worn a hole in the floormat, whose color has been discontinued. And he’s been begging me for the past 2 years to replace his trailer hitch, stolen while at a party. He says he feels neutered. I’m hoping Santa leaves him a little something in his stocking this year. Finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the BB gun pot shot he sustained driving home one evening. It's hard to count this one, though, as he's been known to show it off to the girls (read "Chevy's") in the parking lot of my local watering hole.

Yup, the ol’ boy is also starting to show his age. The air conditioner just went out. He’d never admit it, but I’m pretty sure the control panel failure was directly linked to too many automatic on/off cycles for ‘Lil Bang’s enjoyment. Easy call to spend the $1,000 to give him his game back. The transmission chatters a little between 3rd and 4th under the right circumstances. Like a snoring spouse, it’s a habitual tic I’ve learned to ignore. It’ll go out one of these days, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, I trust him as he trusts me.

The financial environment has dictated that we’re going to be partners for a while yet to come. I’m fortunate that we’re such friends.

Here’s to 100,000 more, buddy.