I lay in bed, I close my eyes and I picture the coast. Just south of San Luis Obispo, winding down through 101, the road spits you out onto the coast. Before you an ocean so large and so blue that it knocks the air out of you, leaving you in a state of awe. We turned south, as if breaking formation, past the cliffs of Shell Beach and along the sands of Pismo. In my mind I see the coast, just like I remember seeing it from inside my 93’ Nissan Altima. Windows down and in came the wind, pirouetting through the sunroof, across my hair and face and right on down to my fingertips. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky on that day and the steady, melodic hum of the engine, its pistons firing in perfect synchronization, was the only music I needed. My dear 461 sailed through the heart of California on that day taking me home from one of our biggest adventures yet. This is how I choose to remember it.
I had driven up from Riverside County to see my Oakland Athletics play in game 3 of the 2006 American League Division Series. It was a very long and physically taxing trip which, since I only had enough money to get there and back, found me sleeping in my car not too far from the Coliseum. Normally, whenever I would drive up to the San Francisco bay area, I would usually opt for the quickest route home, that is along California’s main artery, Interstate 5. This time around however, emboldened by my team’s victory, I decided to take the long way, a more scenic route than I-5, the 101.
Further south, past Santa Barbara and Ventura we once again broke formation and followed the highway back inland. A few miles outside of Los Angeles I heard and felt a loud thump although it was unclear where it had come from. I quickly looked up to my rear-view mirror, nothing behind me, and I was absolutely positive there had been nothing in front of me. I continued on home until I got to Yorba Linda, less than a mile from the Riverside/Orange county line and no more than 3 miles from home, to fill up with gas. I went inside, paid and when I came out a large puddle was beginning to form directly underneath my car. It was transmission fluid, I knew this much. My 461 would not be bringing me home from the 800+ mile adventure we both had embarked on. Instead I got to stand there, in an empty parking lot, and watch her be hauled away on a tow truck in the opposite direction from home. I would have to complete my journey alone.
While this didn’t mark the end of our adventures it was in a way the beginning of the end. When my car came back from the shop a few days later, it was obvious the transmission had taken a hit and soon after the problems kept pilling up. My boat had sprung a leak and I was now scooping out water with a bucket, this would work for a few years but eventually it succumbed to its mechanical problems. My 461, which I named after the last three digits on its license plate, now sits in the drive way, broken and dirty, it’s best days behind it.
But this was most than just a car for me. It was a friend. It was a friend that traveled up and down the coast with me on several occasions. Whether I was headed towards love or coming back from heartache, my friend was there. It saved my life in a serious accident, it was the roof over my head when I didn’t have a place to call home and it was my companion on many adventures to the middle of nowhere. My friend did not fail me, gave me everything I ever demanded of it and was loyal till the end.
I made my car a promise after that fateful trip. I promised it that I would be its last owner, that together we would see it through till the end. As I make arrangements to retire the car for good (not making any attempt to make a single penny off of it) I am glad that I was able to keep this promise. We had a good run 461, I’m going to miss you.
