Some people view automobiles as machines; others, as old friends and traveling companions. I’m speaking in reference to the Nissan Pathfinder in which I’ve logged two hundred thousand miles since I bought it new in 1995. So it’s what’s known as an old car, albeit not nearly as old as its garage mate, my beloved 1973 Volkswagen Kombi.
Of late I’ve been thinking of sinking some money into the old Pathy, which runs well but has some cosmetic issues. Things were just fine until about five years ago, when I was rear-ended on the freeway by a woman dressed as an American flag. She explained that she was “distracted”—so distracted, in fact, that she had neglected to keep current her auto insurance policy.
“I think I must have forgotten to include a check in the envelope,” she explained later over the phone. After I suggested she could just send me a check, I didn’t receive even as much as an empty envelope.
Meantime, I had managed to locate a replacement bumper and tail light and hired a body/fender man to pull out the dent a bit. As I was saving up to have the left rear quarter panel completely repaired, my wife drove the Pathfinder into a concrete pillar, mashing up the right front fender.
“I was distracted,” she explained.
Many’s the time I have wished that I, too, could find comfort in distraction—but no, the fact that my beloved Pathy is now compromised on two of its four corners weighs heavily on my mind. To make matters worse, rust spots have recently begun to appear at the bottom corners of the doors.
“Rust is like cancer,” explained the manager at L & W Auto Body. “We can arrest it, but it will most likely reappear.”
“How long before it reappears?” I asked.
“I can guarantee it for five years,” he said.
“Well, I’ll be eighty years old by then,” I said.
“You’re kidding,” said he. “You don’t look a day older than fifty.”
The reason I don’t look like my age is because I’ve always taken good care of myself. I eat right, exercise, and always watch where I’m going. Never once have I walked into a concrete pillar, and I walk fast enough that I’ve yet to be rear-ended by a fat lady on her cell phone.
So, what am I going to do? Well, I’ve decided that preventive mechanical maintenance would be a wiser investment than cosmetic surgery. I mean, why should I care if my beloved Pathy looks a big rough around the edges, so long as it doesn’t break down and leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere?
In this respect, I seem to have a lot in common with my late friend Trapper Jim Harrison, who at the age of eighty decided it was time to “restore” his 1956 International. Yes, it looked just awful, but all it really needed was a new engine, new chassis and maybe a new body. So even though the end result would be a Platonic replica of the original, it would still be HIS truck.
“I sure as hell ain’t about t’ buy a new one,” he declared. And now that I’m on the glide path to becoming an octogenarian myself, I understand why. Anybody can buy a new car, but how can you possibly replace an old friend?
