laurawhiterivers

What defines you?

That truck was perfect for him.  It was bright, red, and stood at least ten inches higher than all of it’s siblings at the dealership.  It demanded your attention- whether you wanted to look or not.  It always seemed to say “I have arrived.”  She carried within her the second year of an engine design intended to bridge between the debacle of the 6.0 and Ford’s hopeful correction, the 6.7.  He had to have it, he would move Heaven and Earth- it didn’t matter what it took.

As it would turn out, it took trading in three other trucks over two days and a foolish pile of money.  Maya will always remember buying that truck with her father.  It was the day after his birthday and it was his present to himself.  I imagine the salesman won’t soon forget as well, since he was faced with impossible acrobatics of paperwork and financing to make the deal work.  I drove it more than Shawn did in those first early days.  I would run to his jobsite during his lunch and park on the hill, where he could see it shining in the distance.  Then, I would text him about how nice his new truck was so he could enjoy it too while he was at work.  It’s my charm.

Later, after the accident, I pulled at the strings of Heaven and Earth again to keep it in our fractured family.  I allowed other vehicles to be returned to the bank, and I bought her fair and square from his estate.  It was mine….but it would always be his, and that was okay too- because it was a hot truck. HOT. Oh, I could run it, because I can drive the shit out of a bright red, eight foot tall Powerstroke on 37s. I would pull up to a light looking down into the cab of every other redneck diesel on the road and tear off in a burst of soot. I had it tuned and the emissions “corrected”- you can’t run a truck like that stock.  If you do, you’re a communist (might as well have voted Green Party).

What defines me?

Because of who I am, I taught myself about the truck. I can’t own something like that and not know anything about it.  A little at a time I discovered the complaints about her engine.  It can be a work horse for 170,000 miles, or it can blow up on a Tuesday afternoon after lunch and total the truck depending on what breaks.  I quickly realized the clock was ticking.

What defines me – my life?

She was aging, and I guess, so am I.  One thing I have always known about myself- I can sense when it is time to bow out.  I have never let go of my Lill Red Express.  It was the first truck I ever bought.  When I first saw it I was 19 and I knew I was going to ruin relationships and burn bridges to have it  if that was what it took.  Luckly, I only had to convince my father to co-sign a loan for it. (That, I would add, was almost as difficult as pillaging villages)

Even when times were tough, even when I was with boyfriends who demanded I get rid of it, even when I started wondering if it was a clone,  I hung on to the Little Red Express. This year I ran it through the Little Red Express registry that John Roberts runs.  The numbers came back and It’s actually two separate Expresses that were used to build one after an accident!  It is arguably worth what I paid for it-still, 20 years later- unrestored.

What defines me – how I react to my life?

I have always been sensible – to a fault. Sadly, my willpower has always slipped (like a 700R4) when it comes to certain trucks.  I moved Heaven and Earth to get Lill Red, and I did the same for Big Red.  But I am older now.  I have survived a challenging adolescence, loosing my mother young, years in construction, owning a business, being a mother, taking professional risks, watching my husband’s last moments and wondering how I will survive after.  I have gracelessly scraped together all my mistakes, fears and my strengths and I have crawled over what life has thrown at me.

What defines me? What truck embodies me?

Is it a wild, little one-of-a-kind hot rod with stacks and a snotty motor? Am I still young and fast, running from the cops on the highway? (Yes that happened on I-88). Am I still flicking cigarette butts and broken hearts out the window as I matt the pedal and recklessly tear off?

Is it a tall, rude truck with two months pay tied up in wheels and tires alone? This — not even counting the gamble I take on an aging Power Stroke of that particular vintage. Do I still need to prove I can keep up in man-land after all these years, no matter the risk, no matter the cost?  After everything that has happened to me, who do I need to prove myself to?  No. It is time to bow out of that narrative.

For some of us, vehicles are more than transportation to work.  They are the expression of your freedom, hours of restoration efforts and creativity, or the way you make your money.  They are the growl of the right engine, asphalt laid out ahead and that one song on the radio.

I still remember the first Power Wagon I ever saw.  It was waaaay back when I was sixteen.  I was tearing around in a blue 1988 S-10 and (you guessed it) a slipping 700R4. It was pitifully underpowered by a 60 degree 2.8 Liter V6.  When I sped by, the old, orange Dodge always left an impression on me.  She was a 1976,  badged as a Sno-Commander with a rusty, once-yellow Myers Plow.  Every time I would head up the hill to Berne she would be there, sitting quietly in her lot on the side of 85. She was just waiting for the storm to come.  Whatever came her way, it was going to be handled.

It seems so long ago. Have I changed that much?

I truly don’t need to prove anything anymore. Understatement is more my style these days.  I have come to a point in this life where I value reliability, tenacity and mobility. Out of the box my new truck could crawl through some very brutal terrain, picking her path carefully and relying on her spotter.

The Power Wagon sits darkly, metal flake flashing in the sun, well-equipped, confident, and unafraid. 

Today – I own my life.

I will define myself.