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COLUMN: Farewell to my ‘white turd’

About two weeks ago, my truck finally broke down after seven honorable years of service.

In that time, it carried me through six different residences, two schools, four relationships and just under 200,000 miles.

It was my first vehicle, which, to most teenagers, is something special.

It was a 1995 White Mazda BV3000 stick-shift, formerly used as a Napa Auto Parts delivery truck, which was left deserted in a parking lot for an entire year.

The amazing part of the transaction was that my dad ended up paying nothing for it, with the terms of ownership only being, “If you can tow it, you can own it.”

In retrospect, the truck was hideous, with more rust than the color white, a pink sun reflector on the brim of the hood, as well as a Detroit Lions window sticker, which filled more space on my windshield than a big rig at a gas station’s entrance.

The first thing I said when my dad pulled into the driveway with the truck on the back of a trailer was, “Who owns the white turd?”

He promptly smiled and threw me the keys.

Since then, I was the guy with the truck called “The White Turd,” which seemed to groan whenever anyone sat in it. It was amazing how many people asked me to help them move out of their house all because I had a truck.

However, two weeks ago, disaster struck when I was stuck in the Student Activity Center parking lot after an hour of relaxation, unable to shift into first or second gear.

Instead, my white turd would only allow the clutch to shift into reverse, causing me to have to drive from the parking lot to my apartment backwards, along with my emergency lights on and random drivers waving at my misfortune.

I discovered a new talent of driving in reverse but also lost one of the most reliable vehicles known to man.

A few days later, I received a picture over the phone of the red Saturn my dad just purchased for me, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit empty.

The car’s paint job was nice, and the reflector was a thin blue strip at the top, equipped with no giant sticker in the front windshield.

The car could run, and outside of an increase in insurance, there wasn’t anything wrong with it. Except, it wasn’t my white turd.

There is no better feeling than being handed the keys to your first car and no worse feeling than giving them back.

Hopefully, the Saturn can handle the harsh Michigan winters and manage the hazardous dirt roads of my hometown like its predecessor once did.

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