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If you follow me on Snapchat, which you probably don’t, you would have noticed that I have recently upgraded my whip of choice. For the last week, your boy has been cruising around in a super clean Infiniti Q50. Now, that’s just my loaner. My recent purchase is still getting worked on before pickup. Point is, I’m moving on from my vehicle of the past seven years. As welcome as this is in so many ways, the part of me that is constantly, depressingly, nostalgic is aching inside.
Since I’m choosing to sell private, I’ve had to sit down and write up a sales pitch for my old car. This course of action has really made me step back and evaluate the trials and tribulations I went through in this vehicle. One often reflects on the memories built up at a house or apartment, but when you think about the amount of time and miles you spend behind the wheel, the recollection of the phases of your life it accompanied you through come flooding back.
I drove my old car (a 2008 VW Jetta: The Offical Car of Hot Women) for 110,000 miles of
grandpa driving fast and furious action on the road. That’s a long ass time sitting in a single seat. When I first put it in drive, I was a recent high school graduate looking forward to wild times and cheap beer. The last time I exit the car I’ll be a mid-20’s father who’s building a business, but still drinks cheap beer.
Obviously, she’s seen better days. But, it’s the thought of those better days that’ll make me a bit wistful when some
dumbass sucker satisfied buyer drives her out of my sight for the last time. Sure, a car is a means to transport you from place to place, but, it is more than that, too. Your driver’s seat serves as a place of privacy and reflection.
One of my first monumental drives in the old Jetta was my initial five-hour trek to my freshman year of college. I can still remember gripping the wheel and excitedly pondering what was ahead of me; all the girls I’d meet (not many), how my baseball career would go (not great), and if the teammates I was about to meet would like me (most of them didn’t). That white shitbox of a car was with me through the most transformative years of my life.
If by some miracle I got to pitch in a home game, the conversation I’d have on the phone with my dad about how it went almost always occurred while sitting in my car at our field parking lot. Every time I found the time to make the trip two hours north to Texas Tech to experience a real college party scene for a weekend was made in that car; I’ll fondly remember constantly checking the odometer seeing how much of the 140-mile drive I had left.
Sitting in my driveway, now, with chipped paint, a crack in the windshield, and 150K+ on the odometer, she sure as hell doesn’t look like much, but she’s done everything I asked her to do. A little over three years ago I was flying down the highway at far faster than that car should ever be driven (take note if you’re thinking of buying it) to make sure I got to the hospital in time to see my son be born. The Jetta made a 25-minute drive take 15 minutes. I was #blessed to see my son be born thirteen hours later (I didn’t really get the concept of labor). Two days later, the first car my little dude ever rode in was that very same Jetta.
Every single thing, good or bad, that has come my way in the last 3/4 of a decade has been with that German-made monstrosity by my side. Hell, I treated her far worse than she treated me. All I repaid her for years of reliable rides was putting a set of heinous rims on her and rarely ever driving through a car wash.
And that in itself might be the most beautifully nostalgic thing about a longtime car. No matter what bullshit you’re getting yourself into, that thing is always along for the ride. I’ll fondly look back on my memories from the last seven years, and I will certainly remember the slightly shaky set of wheels I rode through the streets. .