Rime of the Ancient Corolla

No, I’m fine with going to Monteagle. Let’s do it. I can drive. My car will make it, I assured Nancy on Saturday when spring fever struck. Rather than stick to the congested outdoor outfitters in Nashville, I insisted we head up the Cumberland Plateau to shop for new outdoor shoes, Chacos for her and hiking boots for me.

Midway up the mountain crossing, traffic bogged down. When speed picked up, the Corolla hit 40 mph and stopped accelerating. Not an extra mile came from the foot pushing the gas pedal down to the floor.

We exited in Monteagle for our shopping and the car seemed fine. But once it approached the magic 40 mph barrier, the frame shuddered. I would not take it above that speed again once we returned to Nashville. Fingers crossed, I went to my usual dealership and hoped for the best. The transmission fluid might be low or old. My car had fought through most problems. Maybe it could fight through this.

As the service department conducted a diagnosis, I felt like Gary Cooper in Pride of the Yankees - "Is it three strikes, doc?" It was indeed; the transmission was shot. Under my foot, the car had seen its last interstate. Fucking Monteagle, I muttered more than I would admit. I sulked over it for a day. Seven years without a car payment left me far from anxious for another five-year term.

Despite no intention of returning to the same dealership, dreams of other cars quickly drifted deeper into the ether. I could buy a motorcycle, but that would require driving it off the lot at some point, when I would become a danger to anything on the road.

 Instead I went back, leaning on that Toyota reliability. In two trips, I found a fine new car and got a better price than I would have anywhere else. Someday I’ll write more about that car. But I have a few parting thoughts about the Corolla destined for the scrapyard. As my Mom put it, we leave our old cars behind quickly once behind the wheel of a new one.

Last view before they drove it away

While waiting for the dealership to shine up the new car, I sat in the lot, editing a manuscript for a friend.Receiving little attention, I took breaks from my editing to stare at the ancient Corolla.

Many people have had driven Corollas longer, but I owned this car for a third of my life.

At one point, I went out and leaned up against the car, appreciating the irony that it was no longer mine. As the wait stretched out, I ran my hand across the hood. This car passed from one dealership to me then back to another that would likely cannibalize it for parts.

Later, as the tech prepared to drive it away, I closed my eyes.  I wanted to remember the coming sound. The engine fired up with its usual ease. It could have been the same warm, breezy day in Columbus circa October 2001 when I drove it off the lot.

There was some grit in the motor as it roared to life. But in February 2014, it still sounded healthy. The engine might have burned oil but it never failed, not even on that trip to Brownsville and back in its 11th year.

Scratched and dented, consuming oil like a champ and now with a blown transmission as its terminal illness, that old Corolla drove off like any other car, disappearing into a shiny into a sea of shiny metal. “Catch you on the road again someday,” I mumbled, fully aware of the lie leaving my lips.