Have Junker, Will Travel

Lucy was one of my finest companions. A spunky yellow miracle, I picked her out of the pack the minute I laid eyes on her. “I’ll take her,” I said to her owner without a moment’s hesitation.

I signed her papers, handed over my money ($800 to be exact) and took her home with me, feeling already as if we had known each other for life. She was the last of a great breed, because Datsun—now Nissan—hasn’t made 510 wagons for years.

Lucy came into my life at a time when I was ready for a good kick in the pants. I was 30 years old, working jobs I hated, and bored. I was scared I’d always be poor, scared I’d always be struggling, and scared of life in general. Some crazy friends of mine were preparing to take off on a long camping trip, and I decided to go along. I had a big garage sale to raise funds for the trip, put the remainder of my few belongings in storage, and bought Lucy.

My mother, who is a good person, did a fi ne job of teaching me to keep both hands on the steering wheel of life, to always prepare for emergencies, and to take the road with the fewest potholes, even if the scenery is boring. I’d taken her advice and run with it…too far. Lucy was my antidote.

I have friends with older cars who will not drive on long trips because “something could happen to the car.” But something could always happen to the car, regardless of its age. The idea that a car has to be new to be reliable is a myth, like the idea that people over the age of 65 are better off retired than working. In a sense, the car dealers who delight in tempting us with shiny new automotive toys are like the fashion scouts who pay handsome rewards to teenagers to pose for us on magazine covers because models who are in their twenties have already become “too old.” Wrinkles, like rust spots, are not allowed. Well, phooey.

Lucy was not a good car in the sense that most people think of a good car, but that’s not the point. If you didn’t know her personally, you would miss her beauty. Those unacquainted with her finer qualities would mistake her for...well, a piece of junk. Her faded yellow paint had endured seventeen years of sun, snow, water and wind. She was very crabby in cold weather. Her AC had been dead for who knows how long. And the upholstery? Let’s just say it was dirt gray. But she was mine, unlike the boxy, listless hand-me-down Volvo wagon I’d sold to buy her. Besides, I find there is a certain character about worn-out things that keeps us mortal. When you drive an old car, you understand that human life is temporary. We come from the earth, and we will return to it again someday.

Spend time behind the wheel of a brand new BMW, and you may succumb to the illusion that life is a one-way street heading straight to eternal youth, or at least a nice place with spotless marble floors and the option of plastic surgery. I was nervous as ever as I set out on my journey on that cool May morning. I’d been delayed by a day, and was to meet my companions at a campground some 400 miles away. I had no idea how long I’d be gone, or what I would do when I returned to Colorado. I sat stiff as a crash test dummy in the driver’s seat, wondering how long it would be before an axle broke, the brakes failed, or the carburetor caught on fi re. Remarkably, none of those things happened. The engine hummed, the miles passed, and I slowly released my death grip on the steering wheel.

I pulled in to that campground feeling triumphant, and more than a little relieved. I wasn’t used to traveling alone, and I was glad to have joined my friends. My camping companions were traveling in pairs. As the only solo traveler in the group, I would have plenty of time alone behind the wheel. As our trip continued, my incessant fears continued to dance their way through my consciousness. I worried about the weather, about bears, about the plight of migratory birds...you name it. After a while, I learned not to fight with the fears, but just to let them be. Yes, they were going to taunt me, but I didn’t have to listen.

My companions had equipped themselves with pickup trucks and topper campers. Lucy and I had to rough it without such luxuries, but that was okay. Back home, my days were clouded by an almost constant anxiety about money. But out in the woods, I lacked nothing. I had good food, warm clothes, a comfortable sleeping bag, and a pup tent that provided adequate shelter. Just as importantly, I had friends around me. What else did I need, truly?

Our little caravan meandered up through the Canadian Rockies, and the days fl ew by. We stayed in quiet, out-of-the-way campgrounds where there were few people and fewer amenities. There really wasn’t much to do except enjoy the scenery and each others’ company. The need to be busy dropped away. I thought of how often I had dutifully filled my calendar with activities, just for the sake of feeling productive.

After six weeks, I parted company with my friends and began the long drive back to Colorado. The thought of camping alone—previously a terrifying idea— now brought no anxiety whatsoever. I still wasn’t sure what I would do when I returned, but that was okay. I had driven thousands of miles with no particular agenda, no emergency plan...in fact, no plan at all. I had no idea what I was doing, and things had turned out just fine anyway.

I’ve heard that Persian rug makers always weave a fl aw into their rugs so they’re not perfect, and after my experience with Lucy I can see that there is a certain logic to such a practice. That geezer of a car exceeded my best expectations, taking me and about 70 pounds of camping equipment over 10,000 miles across the Canadian Rockies without a single problem. She would serve me faithfully for another year before the rust on her body reached the terminal stage, and I had to put her down. I love my current car, but driving such a new vehicle—by Lucy’s standards—makes me feel a little out of touch with life’s more unpredictable elements. These days, when I feel the need to break out of my comfort zone, I imagine myself behind the wheel of that yellow Datsun, and I step on the gas.

Kim Risburg is a musician, writer, and make-it-up-as-she-goes-along freelancer. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where she enjoys sleeping through rush hour traffic and working in her pajamas.

~Kim Risburg