I have always owned a car. From my high school hatchback days to today's SUV, I've operated in a certain level of comfort. But it is no secret that I dream of owning a big, old beater truck someday - a vehicle I could wash with a garden hose - inside and out!
These past couple of weeks, I've tooled around in my brother-in-law's retired work truck, hauling mass quantities of mulch for my spring yardwork. It's been a slice of heaven.
I insert the key in the door and unlock this treasure. Climbing in, I'm careful not to disturb the lacy rust on the bottom of the quarter panel.
I love the metal-on-metal screech of joy, followed by the satisfying thud when pulling the driver's door closed. Sitting on the seat covered bench, I roll the window down (with a crank!), fire him up (I've decided the truck is definitely male) and turn up the radio. The radio pulls in three stations - all on the AM dial. All talk radio.
If only the truck had standard transmission. Then it would be perfect.
But before I put him into gear, I reach over, grab the strap and buckle up.
Because at 170,000 miles, this truck is barely into its adulthood. There are many sister-in-law mooch miles ahead ... unless we crash.
In that case, I want to be in the protective embrace of his safety cage rather than tossed about inside - or thrown out to fend for myself against the pavement.
Besides, I like to think that through the hug of the safety belt, the truck returns my love.
Pickups rock. They also roll.
