Her name was Edie and now I have moved on.
No, this is not about a long lost or unrequited love. This post is about a car, my Pontiac Grand Am in fact, the one I chewed up many a kilometre of asphalt with, just over 285,000 km when we parted ways.
If you are “the driver” in your circles and enjoy it, if you smile wide when you hear the words “roadtrip” or “take me for a drive”, you will understand about the connection between a vehicle and a driver.
Ultimately, the memories that you make, as I did during my almost 11 year “relationship” with that car are about the people, places and things experienced along the way and not the actual vehicle itself. However, having it there as the one constant did add an extra layer of sentimentality when it was time to trade it in.
Now, Edie was not a high-end sportscar or luxury sedan. She simply was a four-door SE mid-sized sedan, ocean blue, with a great heart of an engine at 3.4 litres and a V6. When I told her to go, she went and when her ride was smooth and quiet, it was as regal a chariot you could find for a GM vehicle.
Chicago, Atlantic City, Buffalo, Ottawa, Montreal, London, Windsor, Detroit, Parry Sound, Parry Island, Minden, Hunstville, Kingston, Killbear Provincial Park, Campbellford, Niagara On The Lake, Cobourg, Port Hope and on and on. The first roadtrip in it was to Montreal, fall 2001; the last was to Hill Island last month. The number of reporter assignments I drove to in it must be in the tens of thousands, from murders to raging industrial infernos, from council meetings to Junior A hockey games.
Some of my favourite car memories are poignant, such as seeing a child’s safety seat as a permanent fixture in the backseat for the first time, hearing a five year old giggle and squeal about “we’re having a picnic in the car” while on Lake On The Mountain as rain poured down outside, roadtripping to Chicago in the dead of winter to see The Cult, listening to post 9-11 car radio broadcasts days after buying it, photo roadtrips just because, knowing I was safe when I got to it after covering the G20 Toronto riot insanity, moving to Cobourg in it and the new friendships forged there, parking on the Cobourg pier as waves crashed against it, late night backroad rides in Northumberland, starry skies overhead and hilly, winding roads just beyond the headlights and on and on.
The last few years were far less poignant and frankly a pain including getting towed three times last year alone. In the end, way more repairs than the car was worth resulted.
If she could talk, what would Edie say? Likely they’d be tales that could make a sailor blush, leave a lump in your throat or have you in stitches shaking your head.
I’m not sad to see the old girl go; she was just a car…
If you’re a “driver” you just may understand.