I’ve been driving my wife’s car of late, and I am terrified.
It’s the newest one we have ever had; Miss Rhonda received it when her mother passed away last fall. It rides like a dream, has a decidedly efficient heater, cruise, a grand radio system, and virtually every other amenity known to mankind. There’s radar to let you know when another car is too close, and a warning if you cross the centerline or get too close to another car.
A handy little camera watches behind you when you back up; I admit I sometimes out the car in reverse just to enjoy the novelty of that feature. It’s kind of strange not to have to look over your shoulder or stare at a rearview mirror. Of course, my truck only has two of its three mirrors anyway, since a goat broke one, so a camera might not be a bad thing.
I’m used to my SUV that’s older than some of the mechanics who work on it, and a 31-year-old Ford Escort. Both do what I need, which is get from point A to point B with minimal drama, with enough room for a bale of hay, a rifle, my computer bag, possibly a goat or a dog, and whatever roadkill is fresh enough to justify salvaging. Not all at once, but I like the freedom to be able to do any and all of those things.
I am by no means complaining about the blessing of my wife’s new car; rather, I just have to be alert, since I am used to being able to yank my conveyance into a 90-degree turn down a path into the woods because there looks like there might have once, perhaps in colonial times, been something interesting. The resultant scratches and dents just add character and memories.
But that ain’t happening with the new car.
The lane to our home in the holler is rustic, to say the least. Generally, drivers are advised to take it very, very easy, both to enjoy the scenery and to avoid being thrown into the ditch by one of the terrain features. I generally let my truck idle down the lane. Where I have on occasion glided over the inverted speedbumps (some people call them potholes) at something close to low highway speeds, I creep whenever I am driving Miss Rhonda’s baby. It has roughly the clearance of a thick piece of cardboard, and I don’t like that scraping sound it makes when it bottoms out. My old truck just groans on through the low spots, even the ones that are so deep you sometimes only see sky through the windshield.
The new car warns me when roads are wet, compares travel data from previous trips (I make it get better mileage than Rhonda, by the way), can adjust the internal temperature based on the outside temperature if you set the preferences, switches the high and low beams without being told, and even knows the speed limit on virtually every road, and will remind you of such. It will tell you if you have received a text, and who it’s from, but it will not let you read the text til you are stopped (which I do, anyway). All that, and it gets gas mileage in the mid-30s.
My truck, on the other hand, amazes some mechanics because the check engine light blinks on occasion. It doesn’t just burn, it blinks. You have to hit a bump every once in a while to keep what little technology is there in place, and to make the heater work right. Forget air conditioning and cruise control. You lower the driver’s side window to open the door.
And it makes me happy.
My reliable little old car has some of the same quirks; I have to contort myself to get in, and make a controlled fall to get out. True, the brake lines on one side are dangerously rusted, but the lines on the other side are brand new, so at least I have one set of brakes. It’s slow and steady, and gets almost the same gas mileage as my wife’s rolling computer.
Parked in my boneyard is a project truck that’s a few years older than that; it needs a transmission that is apparently rare as hen’s teeth, since they rarely die. It’s a true pickup, not an SUV like my daily driver. True, it has a nice aftermarket stereo system, but that’s about as technologically advanced as it gets. The day will come when it is back on the road, in all its faded glory.
Do not get me wrong: I am immensely thankful for any transportation. Time was I didn’t have something I thought would make it to the end of the road, much less back and forth to work every day. It’s a major first world problem when someone complains about having paid-for transportation, in my opinion. While I do not like the way we received Miss Rhonda’s car, I’m thankful that I don’t have to worry about a wheel flying off as she heads down the road.
I admit, as I have become more bent and broken, not to say older, I like a lot of the creature comforts. It’s convenient to be able to do some business from the driver’s seat of the vehicle, and even those of us Southerners who grew up without air conditioning still value its worth and wish a national holiday should be declared in Mr. Carrier’s honor. Cruise control has saved me from many a speeding ticket.
But for me? Tech peaked when I put an AM/FM cassette player in my 1955 Chevrolet. There were four gauges, two warning lights, a heater, and a two-speed automatic transmission. Later, I had a tachometer, because I wanted to be cool like my friends. A pickup I had (and hated) had a dashboard like a World War II fighter plane, but none of the factory gauges — including the speedometer and gas gauge — worked. That was easily solved with a lot of wire and aftermarket gauges that were clamped, taped and screwed into the dashboard. When it would run, I had more information than I needed, but was still kind of short on some of the more important things, like speed and fuel.
As soon as I get enough duct tape in the right place to keep the headlights burning, I’ll be happy to be back in my truck.
As convenient as some of these modern improvements can be, I think an auto maker could quickly make billions if he or she came up with a line of simple, reasonably powerful, no frills vehicles that have enough room for two adults and a couple of kids (or dogs or goats if you prefer), that can go off road. Air conditioning would be optional, but no backup cameras or computers telling the satellites to tell the dealership it’s time for an urgent call about an oil change.
Keep it simple, keep it inexpensive, keep it reliable, and I’d get folks would line up for them – although I will admit, I’d be awfully tempted to ask for heated seats.
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