Me, My Truck, and the Very Difficult Decision

Today, I called the insurance broker and told her to take the coverage off my truck.

Because

I won't be driving it anymore


Because


of THIS.

THIS

is a real drag, a total bummer, a huge disappointment, a stupid mistake, and a sadness all rolled up into one expensive problem.

THIS  is a little car accident I had at the end of June.

We weren't hurt but the other car was finished.  Being a total tank, my truck got out still going down the road as straight as it ever did, but less functional with that side smashed in, and a whole lot uglier.

I didn't blog about it because... well, come on.  You can see why, right?  Who the heck wants to admit on the internet that after 5 years of driving this brute that a stupid lane change ruined everything?  I sure didn't feel like putting that up on the internet.  I was going to fix it.  Well not me personally.  I am not good at fixing things.  I'm good at bodywork but I don't do it anymore. We figured we'd get a gently used door and panel, since parts for these trucks are easy to find, and after some hammering and welding and likely some swearing, we'd be able to get into and out of the truck from the passenger side again.

I drove it like this all summer.

Feeling even more paranoid than usual.

Telling myself we'd fix it.  Just not yet.  Soon.

Here's the thing: I LOVE THIS TRUCK.  I know it's not really anything special but I totally dig it.  I love its bigness.  I love the way it sits with the ass end higher than the front.  I love the proportion of the long box and extended cab.  I love the split bench seat, love the backseat, love the big black steering wheel.  I love the 350 cubic inch displacement, all 8 cylinders worth.  I love that it's over 20 years old.  I love that it's mine.

Here's the other thing: it's got a lot of annoying little things wrong with it.  Door handles, turn signals, things lighting up on the dash that shouldn't.  Some rust has poked through. Now the only working door won't close right.

sigh.



And... THIS.

Add it all up and the result is:  it's not worth fixing.

So I'm sad.

And slightly weirded out by how much importance I place on it... as part of my identity.

You know.  I'm the small woman with the big truck.  I'm the girl with the gnarly old beast that would make many drivers quake.  I can parallel park this sumbitch.  I can look down, literally and figuratively, on all those normal people who drive, y'know, cars.


I'm also ridiculously sentimental.  I have a hard time letting go of things.  I tend to name machines and other inanimate objects.  With me, it's not just a truck, it's a friend!


Well, so long friend.  There will be no rock-n-roll flat black paint job in the future, with bright shiny red rims to contrast, which is just as well since my ol' man scoffs at my big awkward truck and also I don't do bodywork anymore.  There will be no fixed up dash.  No new tailgate handle.

As of today, she's off the road.


even though I'll keep it around

cuz the township says we're allowed to keep a project or two

And since all the scrappers are gone now

I can just hide it under a tree

in case I need parts

like those nifty taillights

or the frame hitch

for my next truck....