We were an import family when I was a kid. Two small Japanese cars, a red Datsun station wagon and a sporty green corrolla. Dad swore by them--good on gas, he said. Quality engines, he said. This was back when Asian vehicles still inspired scorn...before Lexus, Infiniti, and Acura. When the body succumbed quickly to salt as the engine happily kept ticking over. Our first trip as a family to the mountains saw the green Corrolla pulling a tent trailer up impossible inclines...quite rightly my first car was a black Corrolla hatchback, five speed. Learning to drive stick--well bless my dad's patience, is all I can say...one memorable day saw me stalling it six times in succession as dad and I coughed our way through an intersection--his feet jammed against the floor, my face burning red.Years later, bombing to tree-planting camps with my friend Owain in his '84 Toyota quarter ton. An epic truck, its' like never to be seen again. Rumbled like a skittish rhino, but never failed us. It rests now at an acreage south of town, a well-earned retirement.
Then and then my own '89 4-Runner, Special Edition, a summer ride...if you've ever seen the movie Drive...well when he's cruising the L.A. aquaducts with his lady friend...that's sort of how that truck made me feel...many a northern Saskatchewan summer sunset viewed from its open windows.
And now my Tacoma (not pictured)--2007, newest vehicle I've ever driven...I had to have it, but is it possessed of the spirit? I've always been inclined to invest my important material possessions with---a whole lotta romantic baggage, ha ha ho ho, and he he.
Maybe the vehicle no longer represents freedom for me...the open road, the split second kerouac smack upside the head...now it helps me get groceries.
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