From tin can to tank

I used to drive a 2001 Chevy Tracker. Calling it a “car” feels generous. It was more of a motorized suggestion — the kind of vehicle that makes you grateful for gravity because that’s more than half of how it moves.

Driving the Tracker was an exercise in optimism. You didn’t accelerate so much as plead and negotiate with it. I’d press the gas and the engine would respond with a sound kind of like those balsa wood airplanes with the plastic propellers. Merging onto a highway required three things: a long on-ramp, a strong tailwind and the necessity of making peace with God.

The Tracker was so light that strong gusts of wind could reposition it. I once changed lanes accidentally because a cat I passed farted.

The one good thing was that nothing rattled, until I put in the new sound system. It had approximately 25,000 watts of boom-boom and utilized a woofer roughly the size of the now defunct Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico. As I drove through town with AC/DC “Back in Black,” or Queen’s “The Prophet’s Song” thumping away, the yellow water tower overlooking Newcastle would start hopping up and down and splashing water all over the area.

I must admit that this trial in off-road vehicles did give me a ton of fun at times. I took it through the tough truck track out at the fairgrounds once, and caught air twice. I took it on a couple of off-road adventures above Mallo Camp, and left experienced drivers in side-by-sides in the dust. I will give it some credit, that box would go just about anywhere I wanted it to, unless there was a bunch of snow on the ground, especially uphill. It just didn’t have the weight for the tires to touch ground. I never did get it actually stuck to the point of needing to be towed out. But it got close a couple of times.

And while it was fun, I probably tried to have a bit too much fun at times, because it also broke — and broke bad. Now, I’m no mechanic. If you want to park your vehicle and never start it again, then I’m your man. Just put a wrench in my hand and tell me, “There it is. Do your worst.” And believe me…, my best is everybody else’s worst. Speaking to me about what’s wrong with a car is like trying to teach my dogs how to speak. My understanding of engine speak reminds me of what Bill Cosby once said, “The rink back was underneath the himalator.” I’m not apologizing for that. For some reason I don’t feel bad about taking things from Cosby without his permission. But the point is that it became too expensive to fix, and I didn’t see the point, especially after the windup key fell out of the back.

So I traded it in for a rusty, beat-up 2013 Ford F-150 EcoBoost that once belonged to some special forces big game hunters. And from the amount of cleaning I had to do inside that truck, I believe they hunted somewhere on Mars for a living. It took me a week of cleaning just to find the driver’s side door handle. But it is fun to drive.

The first time I drove it, I thought something was broken because there was a lot of rattling. Lots of vibrations. No sense of impending mechanical regret. Just … a bunch of clicks and whizzes. But it did feel less like driving and more like piloting a Boeing 747. I mean … Man! Did that thing take off.

I do miss the old stereo, but what I lack in loud thumping music, I now make up for in random heater and air-conditioner noises. Oh, well. You can’t have everything. But that truck does move.

In the F-150, you don’t merge onto the highway — you announce your presence with a big fat soprano and a full orchestra playing a loud rendition of Richard Wagner’s “Flight of the Valkyries.” You tap the gas and suddenly you’re ahead of your own thoughts. The truck doesn’t meekly ask, “Are you sure?” It yells, “Out of the Way! I’m coming through!”

The size difference alone is dramatic. In the Tracker, you feel like dodging the traffic because you’re not sure anyone can actually see you. In the F-150, you ARE the traffic. Other cars don’t pass you; they orbit you. When you signal, it’s not a request — it’s a warning. 

When you hit a deer in the Tracker accidentally (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it), the deer just hops away laughing at you and teasing you with, “Is that all you’ve got!” In the F-150 it’s a different situation altogether.

There’s this big fence on the front of that truck. I believe it was originally put together to keep elephants in some kind of pen at the circus. It’s made out of indestructible materials, such as steel, titanium, diamonds, moon rocks and my mother’s pot roast. 

When you hit something with that thing, you barely notice. After the impact, you just look around wondering if a leaf struck your windshield. Last night I had to pick two elk and a bison out of the front of my truck.

Parking the Tracker was like putting a shopping cart back in its row at Decker’s. You could squeeze into spots reserved for motorcycles and Hot Wheels. The F-150, on the other hand, requires land surveying equipment and a legal zoning ordinance.

The Tracker taught me humility. The F-150 taught me confidence. Possibly too much. I now understand why truck commercials always feature men staring into sunsets. You start believing you could build a cabin
just by parking in a forest and clearing your throat if the trees didn’t automatically split into lumber and arrange themselves into a building, and then thanking you afterwards for not running them over.

The Tracker was a vehicle. The F-150 is more of a lifestyle, an attitude, and possibly a severe personality disorder.

But here’s the truth: I love them both. The Tracker made every successful trip feel like a personal victory and proof of the efficacy of sincere prayer. The F-150 makes every trip feel inevitable — not just victorious, but an event where a presidential acceptance speech seems the only fitting conclusion.

One made me grateful to arrive. And I did get that sensational exhilaration of kissing the ground after I successfully got to my destination.

The other makes me wonder how I ever got anywhere before.

Of course, now I have to explain why so many neighbors disappear in my gravitational wake with every trip I take.