The blue convertible - is it time for her to retire?
I have a number of friends who have recently retired. They have all told me they “just knew it was time.”
I wonder if my beloved 13-year-old blue convertible is trying to tell me it’s time for her to retire. She had a major meltdown on the interstate this week when she completely cut off just yards short of an exit (thankfully). It made me realize I may have been ignoring the signs she’s trying to tell me something.
Two AAA calls in one week. A perpetually lit “check engine” light that my longtime trusted mechanic assures me is just an electrical glitch. A remote that will no longer take a new battery, so I’ve been using the key to unlock the door for months. Cracks in the dashboard. A shredded sun visor. A few holes in the back seat upholstery.
If car years are the same as dog years, then she’s 91 and well past retirement age!
Maybe this incident on the interstate is her way of saying “we’ve had a really good ride” (185,000 miles worth to be exact) but maybe it’s time for her to retire to a less stressful life of in-town travel. No bike rack to add to her weight. No dog to drool on her seats. No yoga mats to pile up in the back seat.
I’ve never considered myself a car person. I always thought the only kind of car I would actually buy for myself would be a convertible. I drove practical, fairly unmemorable cars from the time I got my license.
My first car was my grandfather’s 1964 Dodge Coronet 440. I went to college in a two-door orange Monza purchased from my dad’s secretary. I went to Washington after college in a two-door Mazda GLC. After that it was a series of hand-me-downs from family members – my mother’s Mazda 626, my dad’s Cadillac, my mother-in-law’s Chevy Cavalier.
When I took a job 13 years ago that then offered a car allowance, my long buried desire for a convertible was ignited. After considerable research and substantial “purchase angst,” I settled on a blue Toyota Solara with a black soft top. It was hard to locate, but a car buying service found one in Georgia, and it was delivered to my driveway on New Year’s Eve 2005.
I have so many happy memories these past 13 years associated with this car.
She willingly took on a permanent adornment of a double bike rack three years ago and has suffered the indignity of minor bike pedal punctures and scrapes to her bumper.
She’s taken me many miles to that have included many great biking locations like the Swamp Rabbit Trail in Greenville, the mountains at Kanuga, the beach at Amelia Island, the Colonial Parkway in Williamsburg VA, the riverwalk in Columbus GA. And that’s not including the countless trips to Litchfield and Hilton Head with bikes attached to her trunk.
My Dixie loved my car as much as I do. She would always have a big dog grin when sitting in the front seat next to me – ears flapping in the wind. On long trips we finally reached a truce to keep her in the back seat when I learned to block the front seat access with a clothes basket and folded beach chair. She would snooze on her own yoga mat in the back seat, front paws always dangling off the seat. Although she died in January, the windows still bear her nose smudges and the upholstery has evidence of her drooling tongue when she slept.
I got great joy when I could surprise my then-elementary aged nephew to pick him up from school in the convertible with the top down. He and his friends would barrel out the door and jump into the back seat without opening the door like Magnum PI, and we’d set off for a breezy ride across the Cooper River and ice cream on the other side.
But this recent breakdown on the interstate was really scary, and I think she’s telling me it’s time for her to retire.
I’ve been to a lot of really happy retirement parties lately that involved videos, slide shows, scrapbooks, good food and kind words. Maybe it’s time to figure out an appropriate send-off for my blue convertible that doesn't involve a tow truck, AAA, the highway patrol and a village of people to get me and my bikes home.
I wonder if my beloved 13-year-old blue convertible is trying to tell me it’s time for her to retire. She had a major meltdown on the interstate this week when she completely cut off just yards short of an exit (thankfully). It made me realize I may have been ignoring the signs she’s trying to tell me something.
Two AAA calls in one week. A perpetually lit “check engine” light that my longtime trusted mechanic assures me is just an electrical glitch. A remote that will no longer take a new battery, so I’ve been using the key to unlock the door for months. Cracks in the dashboard. A shredded sun visor. A few holes in the back seat upholstery.
If car years are the same as dog years, then she’s 91 and well past retirement age!
Maybe this incident on the interstate is her way of saying “we’ve had a really good ride” (185,000 miles worth to be exact) but maybe it’s time for her to retire to a less stressful life of in-town travel. No bike rack to add to her weight. No dog to drool on her seats. No yoga mats to pile up in the back seat.
I’ve never considered myself a car person. I always thought the only kind of car I would actually buy for myself would be a convertible. I drove practical, fairly unmemorable cars from the time I got my license.
My first car was my grandfather’s 1964 Dodge Coronet 440. I went to college in a two-door orange Monza purchased from my dad’s secretary. I went to Washington after college in a two-door Mazda GLC. After that it was a series of hand-me-downs from family members – my mother’s Mazda 626, my dad’s Cadillac, my mother-in-law’s Chevy Cavalier.
When I took a job 13 years ago that then offered a car allowance, my long buried desire for a convertible was ignited. After considerable research and substantial “purchase angst,” I settled on a blue Toyota Solara with a black soft top. It was hard to locate, but a car buying service found one in Georgia, and it was delivered to my driveway on New Year’s Eve 2005.
I have so many happy memories these past 13 years associated with this car.
She willingly took on a permanent adornment of a double bike rack three years ago and has suffered the indignity of minor bike pedal punctures and scrapes to her bumper.
My Dixie loved my car as much as I do. She would always have a big dog grin when sitting in the front seat next to me – ears flapping in the wind. On long trips we finally reached a truce to keep her in the back seat when I learned to block the front seat access with a clothes basket and folded beach chair. She would snooze on her own yoga mat in the back seat, front paws always dangling off the seat. Although she died in January, the windows still bear her nose smudges and the upholstery has evidence of her drooling tongue when she slept.
But this recent breakdown on the interstate was really scary, and I think she’s telling me it’s time for her to retire.
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